Waiting
Small squeals sound the alarm
where my mother’s black chariot
rolls through the morning so bright.
She, a white swan on a blue lake,
heads down the hallway for shore
wanting to nap, head tucked.
For weeks, no, for months
in the nursing home,
Mother has spit fire. As for now,
she sits and waits in a dorm-like room
for a knight in shining armor.
Almost sees him, but
no matter how hard she fights,
how long she thinks,
she is blank
on his name.
Pat Durmon
Small squeals sound the alarm
where my mother’s black chariot
rolls through the morning so bright.
She, a white swan on a blue lake,
heads down the hallway for shore
wanting to nap, head tucked.
For weeks, no, for months
in the nursing home,
Mother has spit fire. As for now,
she sits and waits in a dorm-like room
for a knight in shining armor.
Almost sees him, but
no matter how hard she fights,
how long she thinks,
she is blank
on his name.
Pat Durmon