Thursday, December 6, 2007



Thrown by who knows what,
she slams the bare floor. A steel
hip is assigned for her.

Imprisoned with straps,
held tight as a papoose, she
wonders at Sylvia Plath.

The nurse who left her bed
away from the table, scolds, "Didn't
you know you peepeed?"

Every hour she
thinks it's dawn. Time stretches out
like bubble gum.

Trussed like a turkey,
she fights the anxiety
she exudes, being tied.

The cat runs from her
walker, afraid he'll disappear
under this Nutcracker Mother.

After a week he
scrapes his cheeks on the walker's bars,
drifts slowly through, tail high, purrs.

She fears blowing over
at every step, fracturing again,
clutches her wobbly walker.

The windows are streaked, cloudy,
accented by California sun.
Where are the elves?

She wonders where his
patience comes from, his loving
smiles, his soothing pats.
The visitors come and go,
friends and relatives in
new roles; bearing casseroles,
bouquets, reading matter.
She is not used to this
cornucopia of kindly generosity,
feels edgy, out of sorts, grumpy,
like going to museums when they're
closed in foreign countries.

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