Dementia
Rhythmical rocking out fourth storied window
pane glimpses near faded play-dough
corsages between sighs. The phone rings unanswered.
Brushing her hair with whose hand is that
must look for teeth soon, someone is coming may
have to smile wistfully at boy afraid of
birthday party clowns danced all night and into the
courtyards of bloomers and buzzards armed to the teeth
must be looked for the breeze lifting umbrella
high hair mussed. Brushing with whose hand I held
off the coast of wherever was warm like
lasagne for breakfast with champions.
Rhythmically rocking and brushing with whose
hand grasping teeth, she asks,
“Does my makeup look ok?”
*_*_*_*_*_*_*_
Copyright © Nancy Jones | Year Posted 2011
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