Stratford House, Rising Street

They moved you from your haven,
to a dynasty for the old.

the linoleum floor in the bathroom
contains the only materials left from your haven—
the only items left from your lifetime of memories—
my bedroom suite
a kitchen table
and a floor lamp

from the sink I watch your green-fringed rug,
so lost,
so out of place.

Like you, it begs for wear—
damaged and faded like your mind
raped with dementia.

I visit you twice a week—
call you each day.

I apprehensively go, while your now first-born
through succession stays and goes amongst
the pills.

It’s only a matter of time for him—
only a matter of time for you.

I’ll witness the apocalypse slowly.

Sara Teasdale’s right; it’ll be so quiet without the humans.

Your soft rains come in the form of
wrinkled eyes,
small steps,
and repugnance.

And I take the harsh words, the denouncement
from you both—hierarchy of chastisement,
because when you borrow life,
you return it.

I will continue my visits like the cycle of life—
like moss growing over graves.

like a green-fringed rug,
so lost,
so out of place.