Awakened by the summons Of the moon, he wanders. His eyes, vaguely responsive To light fluctuations; and He often weeps when dishes are washed. He calls my daughter, ‘David’ or Simply barks at her. At midday he routinely gathers All family photos, stacks in towers. He interchanges tasks of the dinner table And the bathroom, incognizant. The cat seeks him out and They seem to find comfort together. We keep mittens on his hands; For, without them, he’s prone to Bore holes to the bone. When outside, he’ll rush toward the maple; Embrace it, like Mom, and cry. On Sunday mornings we have come to expect: A laundry basket prepared, by him, Brimming with loose crackers, milk, cheese, Broken eggs and cat litter. He creates knotted chains with his shirts; Laughs, hysterically at the sound of the vacuum; Sings, ‘In The Garden’, whenever it rains.
While, for years now, I have prayed That this is solely dormancy; And someday, he will be full again. I solemnly wish that I had no memories of him; This would make my love for him less complicated.