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Counting Scotty |
My roommate, Scotty, is in his early shade of Alzheimer’s
His sun has sat down and teeters in its own light.
Thirty years he served.
His badge of honor is worn.
Now, his wilderness walks with him, sleeps with him
and talks to him.
His eyes glimmer with remembrances of ho’s and pimps
checking the time every fifteen minutes.
His wife apologizes for his lapses,
I pay it no mind, if it keeps him calm.
His calm: the paddy wagon, the street hustlers, and the homeless
Like Scotty says, “load ‘em in, load ‘em out!”
You fleet in, throwing blankets and sheets,
drilling orders that we have no choice but to obey.
Scotty’s Alzheimer’s blesses him with a moment of clarity,
and he tells her how he feels,
“Why do you have to be so mean?”
until—
You back pedal and slither off into another room.
I pull up the covers
and I laugh myself back to sleep.
copyright 2009
Terry
Clark |
