MONA VAN DUYN
THE STREAM
for my mother
Four days with you, my father three months dead.
You can't tell months from years, but you feel sad,
and you hate the nursing home. I've arranged a lunch
for the two of us, and somehow you manage to pinch
the pin from Madrid I bought you closed at the neck
of your best red blouse, put on new slacks, and take
off your crocheted slippers to put on shiny shoes,
all by yourself. "I don't see how you could close
that pin. You look so nice!" "Well, I tried and tried,
and worked till I got it. They didn't come," you said.
"Mother, I'm sorry, this is the wrong day,
our lunch is tomorrow. Here's a big kiss anyway
for dressing up for me. The nurse will come in
tomorrow and help you put on your clothes and pin."
"These last few days her mind has certainly cleared.
Of course the memory's gone," your doctor said.
Next day they bathed you, fixed your hair and dressed
you up again, got a wheelchair and wheeled you past
the fat happy babbler of nonsense who rolled her chair
all day in the hall, the silent stroller who wore
a farmer's cap and bib overalls with rows
of safety pins on the bib, rooms of old babies
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