Friday, November 15, 2019

Volunteering with the Elderly - a poem for our times

Hello, my darling readers.

Just found this poem, so while my 4 raw eggs are waiting to turn into hard-boiled - tick tick tick goes the timer for 25 minutes - lemme publish this poem.

I DO have dreams that my mind is going.

Tick tick tick.

VOLUNTEERING WITH THE ELDERLY 

Names have been changed

Parkinson's Disease
Alzheimer's
Dementia
They arrive early in the morning
Dropped off by their loved ones
Guy, my favorite, comes over to our table
his blonde wife Eileen
lets him through the door. He finds
a way to our table, but a sense of
direction he does not have, as once
I saved him from wandering into the
ping-pong room.

Every 20 minutes he asks me where
I live. "Willow Grove," I say,
"just down the road."

Two weeks ago we learned Albert,
the silent man, who would come
alive when we sang Sinatra, had
died. Guy had not forgotten and
kept asking, "Is everyone here
who's supposed to be here?"

I looked around. Elena with the
little beard was there. Val, with
Parkinson's and hallucinations
was there, her arm stiff as a
block of wood, and Lily, who
thought people were stealing
from her but could go to the
bathroom herself.

"They're all accounted for Guy,"
I said, deciding to skip
Albert's death.

Guy, a doctor in a former life,
dresses in spiffy clothes,
a warm brown sweater, round eyeglasses
like John Lennon's and saddle shoes,
neatly tied. 

We know who dresses him.

We smell the food getting ready
in the kitchen. Guy and I swivel
our heads just so and await the arrival
of meatballs and pasta.

Am I working here in a silent pact
with Fate to make sure my mind
remains free of all the terrible
conditions that await us?

Silence.

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