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Mom at ninety

When I enter your room
in the government retirement home,
I find you sitting in the same chair,
reading the same book, as when I
left you three months ago.

There is a walker standing in
the corner of your room now
and when I had to leave,
you pushed your way to
the front door, slowly, so you
would not fall and then, sadly
waved goodbye to your daughter.

Now I see the nurse put
new furniture in your room.
It is not a chair as you think,
but a practical portable loo.
One day I’ll arrive for a visit
just to find you lying in your bed,
not reading in the red rocking chair.
You’ll still be waiting, the
same prayer on your lips.
Your broken voice matches
the dead-end pathways in your brain.
Your smile though, still the same.
Somehow, you still remember me.

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