Oranges and Fog
Thursday,
and my father is at it again.
Such are oranges and fog.
The body has forgotten
his social security check
again.
I am mostly toes
walking
along the shore
explaining over and over again
what is out of my control.
Photos of blackbirds
and foam,
the Alzheimer’s won’t let sink in.
It is like that now.
Some men talk,
other’s don’t.
Neither of them can remember anything.
Phone numbers.
Meal times.
It’s all too much.
What happened this morning.
The Saturday afternoon.
The walnuts and cars along the road.
I don’t know
the comedy of old men.
I weigh one hundred and twenty five pounds
in socks.
Each moment is a new beginning
they will quickly forget.
And still,
there’s enough fat to pinch
beneath my blouse.
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