In Her Dementia, My Mother
In her dementia,
My mother got kinder
And funnier.
Often she was enchanted by the people next door
Who she thought were running a brothel.
This idea horrified her, of course, being from
Small town Colorado.
But she went to the window, peered out
Through the held curtain.
Reported a coming next door,
Or a departure,
Triumph in her face.
Proven right again!
It was something to talk about.
How many, how often, what times of day?
Men? Mostly men, of course,
You know men.
They can’t control.
They can’t control.
She couldn’t control
She hated she couldn’t control men.
She had five sons from three men.
Demented, she perceives a brothel next door.
Welcome to the neighborhood.
