Saturday, March 11, 2023

Four Weeks

Four weeks driving from work to the hospital.
Brisk walks on the icey pavement.
Steam in my glasses with my mask.
My father.
Covid and pneumonia. Another stupor.
A thin cloth gown that he leaves untied in the back.
He moves from bed to chair, chair to bed.
Squeaky shoe basketball games on the television.
White walls, white floors, white light.
The beating shrill of the bed alarm.
His memory is folded in upon itself--
like a paper plane lifted, 
then falling.
Remembering someone who wasn't there,
who didn't bring him lunch.
What day is it?

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