Happy last day of Poetry Month 2014!
I wish I felt happy.
My sister and I are in the middle of taking care of my 91-year old mother, as are so many of our peers. I don’t recommend it if you can avoid this life chapter. I’m trying to book a business class ticket to a beachside resort in Denial, but it’s not looking good.
I thought I’d ask Mom to help come up with one last metaphor for the MetaphorAffair I’ve been having this month. And she did.
These are just rough notes; I’ve taken some liberties to leave stuff out and put stuff in…but essentially this is straight dictation: material for a poem to be written during a calmer period of my life, perhaps…
WHAT’S A METAPHOR FOR AGING, I ASK MY 91-YEAR-OLD MOTHER
A thief. A thief takes all your assets,
she says lying on the couch,
looking thin, grey, and so very small.
The thief sneaks in,
taking your confidence.
A thief takes everything you own.
You’re in your house that’s suddenly invaded by—
what do you call them? Aliens.
Those little guys in the sky.
Aliens that give you pain—
a terrible headache, just on the left side,
and stomach aches.
Aging is a thief who takes your memory.
You forget spoken words.
But not music.
