Gateways To Dementia Poem by Doug Lane

There are so many of them
there's no keeping
track of them.
Writing sappy poems
to faithful old dying
dogs
or wives.
Forgetting
what you were
trying
to remember.

Hallucinating
with a clarity and intensity
that far exceeds
anything leaking into
your eyes and ears.
Crying,
far too readily and copiously
at nothing
or almost nothing.
Then sobbing
inexplicably.
Feeling sorry for yourself
with a depth and intensity
which would have been
utterly alien
to you
back when you were
an adult.

A crankiness beyond cranky
that makes you
explosive
as an old hand grenade
found in a basement.

Telling the same stories
to the same people
over and over,
whether they remind you
they've heard them before
or not.

Your world stripped of wonder
because your needle's stuck
in the old gramophone
and you think the same old thoughts
in the same old words
in the same old worn out ruts
over and over,
blind and deaf
to what's new
in the spinning world
outside
your fog
and confusion.

Forgetting the names
of everyone
and almost everything
and putting in requests
to the memory clerk
for lost labels
and not getting a response
for hours, or days, or weeks,
or never.
And never being sure
your responses are right
when you finally do
get them.
There goes
your quick wit,
your sharp mind
only a memory,
an allegation.
"Don't they make
sharpeners
for brains? "

Starting out
to say something
and forgetting
what it was
you wanted
to say.
That lost train of thought,
and all its passengers,
condemned to circle
round and round
irretrievably,
never to return
to the station.

Becoming incontinent
in the most
surprising ways
and humiliating
times and places.

Remembering
people and incidents
from a half century or more
with crystal clarity
and preferring to remain,
in that lost, known, dead,
world
rather than risking
venturing
into the living 3D world
and people
hovering around you,
or speeding past you,
begging
for your attention.

Your hands
trembling, fluttering
like giant moths
helplessly attracted
to bright lights
like the lights
which once
shone
out of
your eyes.