The photographs have misted
in your old, white, unwitting eyes.
“Who’s this?” you ask me, every day:
it’s become a sort of hobby,
this failure to remember,
this squeezing out the final ooze
of memories, now just hands waving.
In my bitter steam of red pity,
every photo is the same:
that home, those dentures, moans,
wrinkles, empty eyes and hanging jaws,
inhaling piss, shit, and flowered walls.
I'll never visit, when you go. I know
I'll only shout and make you cry.
You always do.
So it kills me, this ritual. It pushes up my
heartlessness like thick green phlegm.