​Hot Mustard


so he says he forgot
what he came in the kitchen for
because he was distracted
by me chopping carrots
in my old Mad Italian sweatshirt
and Buffalo Plaid pants
hair in pigtails — no fashionista 

though coming out of surgery
was not my best moment either
when he sat by my bed
kindly assuring me 
that the tiny men swinging about
on long ropes outside my window
weren't exactly there
​
but today he is taken by the sunlight
on my hands slicing carrots
and I am happy
I can still make him forget 
things best unremembered
and the hot mustard
he came in the kitchen for





Stop the Clock


The door groans open
and in they totter— 
he on bent, wobbly legs,
she cautious, in a red blouse,
her hair like April snow
flying in every direction at once.

He announces we're here 
for Violet's blood pressure
and the receptionist smiles,
everyone smiles, even me, 
who's grumpily waiting 
for yet another remedy
on how to patch up aging bones.

They fall into chairs
across the room
and laughing, Violet says 
oh you've worn your yellow socks
and he displays them proudly.
Well that'll stop the clock, she says,
while on the wall above us
time ticks relentlessly away.