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 ****-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.