Greying
Back in the car he wipes
his eyes,
checks the rear view
mirror and
starts the engine….
That old curtain story
worked again,
quieting her sobs,
bringing her back,
partly, from the fear in
her eyes, the
uncertainty she inhabits
nowadays…
back to bedsores that heal
so slowly…
again he complained, they
promised,
but nothing changes… since
he
brought her to this “rest”
home, the
only one nearby with a
vacancy, with
promises of great care,
cheery rooms…
providing negligent, dingy
spaces, at
a price higher than his
income.
So passes another day,
another visit,
so comes another evening
on the couch,
a night alone in his house
of memories…
driving home he detours
past the factory,
stops in front of the Second
Shift bar,
sits in the car, can’t go
inside, no use,
gives it up, motors on to
the house,
Into the drive, shuts the
engine down,
sits and stares, lights a
forbidden smoke,
puts it out, walks to the
front door and
steps into the rooms they
shared,
rooms where happy voices
still echo.
Sitting at the same desk
where he
filled tax forms year
after year and
worried, in those early
months, about
house payments, car
payments,
doctor bills, school
clothes for the kids…
he runs fingers through
his greying hair,
sips the last from a glass
of bourbon,
pushes back the chair,
stands to
carry the glass to the
kitchen for a refill,
which he carries to the
couch,
stopping to turn on the
TV… world news
while another day fades.
Two pretty girls and a
very earnest man
discuss the world’s events
and local news
as he stares into
nothing….
Fading to Blank
Her voice gallops across
air,
big-eyed from the
uncertainty,
nearly silent ….
Vapors of fear, questions,
where is this? who is
this?
which this is this? and
still
comes nobody through this
confusing door which
leads,
on the dwindling good
days,
to those kitchen
afternoons
watching Mom, waiting as
cookies swell behind the
oven door’s foggy window,
or
listening as supper
sizzles
in the big cast iron
skillet.
Comes no greying man who
claims to be her husband,
to
remind her how she sewed
these bedroom curtains so
far back along the hallway
of
years, that same hallway
leading to Mom’s kitchen
and
schooldays, and the
wedding,
the children… the hallway
that can’t recall her
name,
that sometimes takes her
to
the porch, not the
bathroom..
Her eyes watch strangers
now,
who come when it’s
daytime,
making her exercise, even
bathing her, changing her
gown,
gently combing her hair
and
telling her she’s pretty…
lord,
how can she think about
pretty
when thoughts run away
like
her naughty children who
never visit anymore, but
send
sad-eyed strangers to sit
on the couch and act
happy?
Her galloping voice
gradually
slows, then halts, quiet
as she
vacantly stares….
©2018
Thomas Hubbard
