Wednesday, March 24, 2021

Near the pond

This bowl of oatmeal looks pathetic 

and I'm the one who prepares it for him.  


It waits and cools on the table 

as my love is wheeled down the hall

to our breakfast room.  


Bits of dried apple and puffs 

of cinnamon drift on

this mush the way 

lotus and spatterdock 

float on the pond.  


His eyes fall on it. 


The spoon and napkin wait 

for him to take the usual four bites 

though I hope he will eat it all this time. 


My love is so thin. 


But not his face. 

Still boned and squared.  


Not his hair: still full, still thick 

as sweetflag around the pond.  


But oh God he is so thin. 

He is disappearing--


a twig on which a few 

last blooms cling-- 

these last moments 

of summer.


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