1. 

They say I ought to begin with writing.  They say
there are shifts, the slip of tectonic plates, and if I can
exercise the grey matter, they say, those doctors, 
with that sly look, a wink, as if 
I am supposed to understand,
perhaps it will slow, the rumble will dull, 
and the scale of my life will settle.

2.

Today:  burning brush in the oil drum
across the street.  There was a flare, 
and I jumped back, I cannot say when
the fire spread, or how my neighbor's orchard
was swallowed, I can only say my fingers
were fat fish, flopping against the phone, I couldn't
find a way to tell you:  the world was engulfed
and I had started it all.

3.

I am wearing a suit for what will be
the last time, though I cannot know that now.
I've lost my license.  You, hands
like bird's feet, will clasp the steering wheel,
and I will walk in circles.  This morning, I told you
I would fetch the mail.  And I stood.  You asked
what I was doing, and I confessed:
I cannot remember where they have put the door.

4.  

I think, maybe this is how I will always
live.  I cannot stand being strapped inside
myself, the way I cannot recall which direction
is left, where the boundaries have become.
If I take a walk, I might get lost, worry you.
I have walked these roads for three decades, and now—
it is all unfamiliar territory.


5.

I think I embarrass you sometimes, the way
my voice carries out in church, when I tell them
to speak up, when I have forgotten my hearing aid,
or turned it off, when I  tell you I must 
go to the bathroom and stand up,
right then, I cannot help it.  I wait for you
in the basement, nice ladies offering me a cookie,
and I will be quiet, I will not shame you any longer.

6.

I woke this morning and found
you were gone, instead, in your place, a red haired woman
who had killed my mother, taken my 
money.  You were gone—where were you
when I needed you most?  You said you would
protect me always, and instead, this woman
offered me tea or cocoa and I bellowed for her to
get out, get out!  She stood in your garden,
pulling at your vegetables, and though it took
some time, some figuring out, I called the police,
told them what had happened.  Oh, where were you?
Now, I write to you from these blank walls, I wonder
what became of you, my wife, did you 
rid yourself of that stranger in the garden?

7.

This is how I try to be helpful, 
for I don't know how they pay my way at this place:
I clear away the plates, though I do see
the women in blue following, the way
the plates are returned, perhaps refilled.
I push the ladies in the wheelchairs back
to their rooms, though I am often bruised
with their newspapers, the soft thwap
of rolled up paper against my arm, the plaintive
sounds of, Help, help sometimes sound
like girlish laughter.  I thought I was helping.
I know you will come again, and I wait
in the hallway, my suitcase packed. 
I can be patient, you see.  
But sometimes they return me to my room, 
pushing layers of clothes on me,
telling me not to sneak out the window again.

8.

Thanksgiving now, and new walls, new blue
uniforms, and I keep wondering how
this will all end.  I'm not sure it's you
when you come sometimes, but I do kiss
your hand, I do rub the lines that have formed
there, I do hold it tight.  
You seem happy with this, 
though I know it hurts you to see me 
this way.  They had us riding horses today,
and I told you this, so happy, and how we earned
money piling wood, but you
didn't seem quite as happy, my earning my keep.

9.

Milk today.  Straws are strange, like snakes,
and I cannot swallow.  I know my son is in college
now, but I cannot remember his name.  He is in
a good year, and he should finish, good for him.
I have many thoughts and they say to write them down, 
but my hand feels like they put metal in it.  I'll keep one eye
open tonight, and I'll tell you what happens.

10.

Here is my mind, I could pull it out like taffy,
I want to say to you, help me help me, but I cannot
form the words.  My lips have become slippery and
my tongue flops around, useless.  I am useless.
Help me.  Help me.

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