Anne is 97.
"Oy, the bones!"
Walking ain't easy
Sitting draws pain.
"I use a heating pad."
Her pink house is a shrine
with 2 T.V. altars.
"I'm so lucky."
Marilyn is 72.
"I ran my own modeling agency."
She orchestrates care,
for her mother Anne,
for husband Manny.
("He had a stroke.")
and for Debbie,
her daughter with M.S.
"WHO TOLD YOU SHE HAD M.S. ???!!!!"
screamed her text.
I pause, . . . . .
Volcanic fissures of paranoia erupt weekly.
(she's tired, living on that last nerve, Om..... I must forgive... forgive... forgive...).
"You did" I reply.
Anne,
Marilyn,
Manny,
and
Debbie.
And the pink house altars chanting.
Chanting greed.
Chanting wanna be, wanna more, wanna wanna om wanna wanna....
The kill-you-with-boredom soaps and talk shows blast from all T.V.s,
"ELLEN looks more like a man everyday, I like KATIE," she declares, as I quietly shut the door.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC
Anne is 97.
"Oy, the bones!"
Walking ain't easy
Sitting draws pain.
"I use a heating pad."
Her pink house is a shrine
with 2 T.V. altars.
"I'm so lucky."
Marilyn is 72.
"I ran my own modeling agency."
She orchestrates care,
for her mother Anne,
for husband Manny.
("He had a stroke.")
and for Debbie,
her daughter with M.S.
"WHO TOLD YOU SHE HAD M.S. ???!!!!"
screamed her text.
I pause, . . . . .
Volcanic fissures of paranoia erupt weekly.
(she's tired, living on that last nerve, Om..... I must forgive... forgive... forgive...).
"You did" I reply.
Anne,
Marilyn,
Manny,
and
Debbie.
And the pink house altars chanting.
Chanting greed.
Chanting wanna be, wanna more, wanna wanna om wanna wanna....
The kill-you-with-boredom soaps and talk shows blast from all T.V.s,
"ELLEN looks more like a man everyday, I like KATIE," she declares, as I quietly shut the door.
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