We always take the furthest spot, eager to walk
the flat expanse of the parking lot.
On occasion you smile in these first days
swollen with hope,
late June sunshine on your shoulders,
the Dogwood just in bloom.
Hot, you wave a limp wrist
motioning me to park nearer.
The tree is laden with green now
like emerald stars. Ghosts float
through glass doors.
Hip, kidney, bone. You hobble from car to
lobby filled with mums and pumpkins.
That wool cap fits loosely now, your face still
the sleeves of your cardigan slip.
The wheels on your chair thin, snow deep.
This final infusion is
your Simon of Cyrene sips
coffee with security as I
recline the seat and
writhe you out.
Published in Vita Brevis Press