Almost
They’ve built porches with striped awnings
in the hallways of the dementia unit. Put in
a few squares of astroturf, a border of plastic tulips.
When we walk out in the mornings we forget
where we’ve been; we enter a village
that is almost familiar—its street signs and big blue
government mailbox. But where is the feral cat
who used to come looking for cream?
Everywhere we turn, the day is new.
As are the neighbors—the endless chain
of kind and cantankerous strangers. All
the comings and goings. We wonder when
it will rain again. And what about
the winds? What happened to the winds
that could undress us of our cares?
And what happened to those long
December nights & their sudden onset
of flurries that would touch us so
lightly it almost felt like love?
by Prartho Sereno:
from Rattle #87, Spring 2025
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