Distraction Poem by The Poet SPIEL

distraction


(you prefer recall of when her docs promised
she was in her last days while she was more
comfy and quite silent on oxygen and morphine

and he'd asked:
"may i assume she has her affairs in order")


she hoists her popping hips
out of her lavishly appointed wingchair
to dig her bony heels firmly into
this crudded persian carpet

then unassuredly dawdles
towards her ancient chiffonier but
returns almost instantly reeking of whiskey
and accompanied by her swollen longhaired cat

who is so cumbersome as he lunges to her shoulder
she droops leftward like a tin boat with a hole
yet reaffirms her position as grand matriarch
of what you'd hoped might become

a meaningful conversation about her papers tho
instead, it turns into a freak show featuring that cat
as it seductively wraps its jealous tail around
the heirloom gold filigreed rose at her bilious neck


so you choose to count the hours backwards since
they'd hauled her away nearly lifeless
and slobbering undying gratitude to you

those hunky emergency techs are surprisingly calm
as they banged on the breast
that once nurtured you