home

Gramma at the nursing home

is querulous.

Spits like a cat and slaps

demanding to go home

where Grandpa,

ten years dead

and her children

grown

with families

of their own

wait for her.

I too will cry

in my foriegn rooms

to a bored nurse.

Home is a time;

A hot summer’s day,

Nineteen ninety eight.

The frog pond;

The sand’s cool respite

and the joy of tadpoles

that turn to frogs

in our care and sight-

A joy I’ve been chasing

since.

 

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