XXVIII

There lives an image in my head
A picture of people worse than dead
And one of them is you.
They are like ghosts,
Illusions of getting better and moving on,
Haunting the living areas of stale houses
Watching hours of pointless television
Because it is the only thing of which
They are mentally capable.
A family dwelling has become a nursing home
For living corpses,
You wait on the mail to come
So you can hobble out into the light
Wearing a brace on your leg and me on your arm.
Communication is futile,
The couch is more of a coffin
Or a resting place
For the same path you trace with your limp leg
On the way to your bedroom.
Ten o' clock is bedtime
And nine o' clock is medicine time
And twelve o' clock is sobbing time for me,
Because the picture that comes to mind
When I think of mom
Is a black dress and 'What Sarah Said'
And how much I loathe
Watching you haunt this space
Only a quarter human,
And I only tear up because I hate the way I know
That you're worse than dead today
And less alive than yesterday