As I Drive Away

As I drive away from the park 

where I've been sitting 

looking at trees, and writing,

I see him squatting 

atop a wooden table 

in the gazebo near the pond.

He wears a hooded jacket;

a small back-pack clings

to his hunched shoulders.

It's only 4:15. Already

the cold hunkers down

and the slow mist comes in.

I wouldn't like to be homeless

tonight, I think, shivering

as I drive away.



[Poem #94]

Shared, years later, in Writers' Pantry #37  at Poets and Storytellers United.

Nursing Home: Jeanette

Tiny woman.
Soft, full hair
beige blonde.

Seated at our table,
at first glance
looks fifty.

I think she's used to
no conversation;
responds when we begin.

We ask how long
she's been here.
'Do you know,' she says,
'I think it's four months ...
I can't be certain.'

Her son works
in the kitchen.
She can see him
sometimes.

Used to live
by water, misses
her house ... voice
trails wistfully,
eyes grow distant.



[Poem #93]

Cross-posted from my poetry blog: The Passionate Crone, where it was submitted for dVerse Open Link Night #49

Nursing Home: Marjorie

1 Meeting

‘Another author!’
The Activities Officer
delightedly introduces
someone Andrew can talk to.
But it’s me who’s interested.

Marjorie, my mother’s name.
And her book, that she clutches
and displays, recounts
her childhood in India.
My mother was a child there too.

Still pretty, she’s also gracious:
beautiful English manners
from the last days of the Raj.
Like Mum again —
but this Marjorie
was legitimate Officer stock,
not a little Anglo-Indian girl.


2 Getting acquainted

She shows me a baby photo,
her family’s newest; can’t quite
explain where he fits.

And her son is a writer
(I know the name).
She describes his home,
which she visits. Sure enough,
on Mother’s Day she’s missing;
they must have taken her out.

She asks about my writing,
double-checks
that man’s my husband,
a writer too. I think
of giving her our books.
But I never see her read.




Cross-posted from my poetry blog The Passionate Crone, from whence it was submitted to Poetry Pantry #101 at Poets United.

[Poem #92]

Nursing Home: Keith

He’s thin and slighty stooped

but the grey hair’s thick and wavy

and he moves at normal speed —

except when he’s with her.

Holding her hand 

or arm around her

he leads her to meals

or out to the sunny garden.

She turns to him

a gentle, vacant face.

He greets us cheerily,

eyes full of comprehension.

We realise he lives here 

to be with her.

He looks happy. 

So does she.

Cross-posted from my poetry blog, The Passionate Crone, from whence it is submitted to Poetry Pantry #101 at Poets United. 

[Poem #91]

Nursing Home: Bobbi

Bobbi walks quickly 

along the corridors,

keeping to the edges.

One day she tells me,

whispering:

‘I hurt my hip. Now 

I have to keep walking 

or it seizes up.

I feel conspicuous

and embarrassed.’

She is slim

in her neat slacks

and cardigan,

sweet face framed

by a short pageboy.

Her eyes widen

a moment and I glimpse 

fear, want to hug her 

but will not intrude

on her frail dignity.



Cross-posted from my poetry blog, The Passionate Crone, from whence it is submitted to Poetry Pantry #101 at Poets United. 

[Poem #90]