Changing The Bed With Debussy

//parkinsons poems

Changing The Bed With Debussy
I do not know
how a day will go,
why meds help
more or less.
My voice
is like a mist,
unheard.
When swallowing,
I choke.
I recollect croissants,
warm, crunchy,
slipping down my throat
as easily as hymns flew out
on Sunday.
This morning
a rain-rinsed breeze puffs through
our open bedroom windows.
Birds welcome back the sun
with chirps and fluttering.
Can I help change the bed today?
Pull the cover off the duvet?
Will my hands cooperate?
Or do I have to wait
for you to separate
the linens,
my hands helpless
as empty mittens?
Sunlight gleams
on dripping, silvered
eucalyptus leaves,
their scent medicinal
The wind from the sea
is nudging white-cotton clouds
towards the east
through starch-blue sky.
If we walk,
will I walk
awkwardly,
lose my balance,
scrape a knee?
Will you play music for me?
Supposedly, it will
prompt me to move smoothly
though I don’t know why
it would.
Maybe I can do
the bed too if I am accompanied
musically by you,
playing Debussy.


***********************

My confidence bleeds away
and I don’t know what to say
when people ask worriedly,
“How are you?”
as I get weaker
day by day.
I dust and sweep
less and less,
iron desultorily,
vacuum only when I have to,
and then haphazardly,
plan easy meals,
limit company,
try to cope
by reducing the scope
of activities,
while depending
more on you -
getting tired too,
with more to do
because of me.