Pathos.. A Poem On Caring For The Elderly

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The mornings hang here, until..
I peek out of the window and
hurry out of the house for the next door..

Determined to find an answer..
I gently turn the key and
push myself into the hallway..

Moving past discolored leaves and curtains..
I pass them, a lot of them,
the dusty picture frames..

The only doctor among her girl friends..
I see Rosemary, my mother,
Must be 1954, she was never exactly sure..

Here, inside the empty bedroom..
I look for indications of his existence or
is it the lingering thoughts of childhood..

Next to the island in the kitchen..
I see Charles hunched over the chair,
the old newspapers gathered chest high on the table..

He smiles as if to make Rosemary proud..
I am sure he is alive,
his stomach breathing and our dilated eyes have met..

He dunks his tea with a big biscuit..
I see a trail of crumbs,
one of many, around the girth..

Pulling back his dirty green sweater..
I run fingers through his hair and
over his shoulders..

Tell Carolyn to come visit me, he begs..
I will be back – I tell him.
Two minutes is all I have for him today..

Ironical..
I would have just these two minutes
from him while growing up..

Somehow, the morning still hangs..
I feel something doesn’t feel liberating
and it must be his will to live..

But..
I, Carolyn, will let another day pass
and then peek out of the window..

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Originally composed on: 02/06/2014 6:27pm

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Poetry