Poetry of Bob Bradshaw: Alzheimer's; Dori Leaves

Spring/Summer 2008

Winter/Spring 2008

Alzheimer's

I close the blinds, darken the house.
Suddenly Dad stands, as if
remembering an appointment.

He rushes out of the house
as if a taxi had pulled to the curb
to take him to the airport.

Sometimes I pull up next to him on a road.
Dad, do you want a ride home?

"Who are you?" he asks.

Will I find myself one day
wandering south?

When I misplace a pair of scissors
or forget to lower the heat on a burner

will the sun,
filling a frame of glass in the kitchen,
be pulling me one day closer to Florida?

Will language become a white noise?

Will my children become strangers
tugging at me? Will my husband
become a nurse serving meds on a tray?

Where will I turn when everyone
is a stranger? What
will I do, but try to find a road

to lead me safely home?

Dori Leaves

She's packing her suitcase,
slipping my first edition
of The Sound and The Fury
under her stack of panties.

Do you think I'm gonna
call your friends, I ask,
or knock on your mama's door
moaning how I'm lost

without you? I won't
miss your lavender scent
in the bathroom.
I can watch ball games

whenever I want to.
I've wasted too much time
driving you places
tolerating afternoons

in antique stores.
"Good!" she says and tosses
her bra at me. "A memento,"
she says. "Since you won't

see one of these again
for a long time."

Copyright 2009, Bob Bradshaw. © This work is protected under the U.S. copyright laws. It may not be reproduced, reprinted, reused, or altered without the expressed written permission of the author.

Bob Bradshaw is a programmer living in California. He is a big fan of both the Rolling Stones and easy times. Recent work of his can be found at Loch Raven Review, Thick with Conviction, Raving Dove, Eclectica, Orange Room Review, Mississippi Review and Pedestal Magazine.