11/20/2017 Poetry by Betsy MarsSunnyside Care Home Privacy curtains drawn, we watch Jeopardy. Our nightly routine, a bond before parting. The tray pushed aside - broth and blended brown mounds, reeking of spoon-fed infancy. We listen for questions to which we know the answers. In the same room, behind curtain number 2, a man keeps a vigil, silent like his silent twin, united again in this sterile womb. Final Jeopardy after the next commercial break; we wait expectantly. Before the question can be revealed, a soft voice from behind the curtain requests our pardon. We mute the TV; he tells us his brother has just passed. In solidarity we turn off the TV. That’s how death can happen - the question we will never know. Off-track walking in the spreading weeds beaten down picking salad greens I hear the train coming, rhythmic loneliness spreads the many railway destinations I’ve been railroaded in: New Orleans bars, New York cars, off the tracks in Memphis, waylaid in LA, the last stop is around the bend the sun is glaring, red hot tomatoes grow wild my bag loaded and bursting Banking on it We’ll go to the bank in the morning. The branches are kitty corner, at Main and Elm. Remember? The accounts have a long series of numbers, arranged in columns. I’ll take you first thing in the morning. We’ll get your money; don’t worry. I’ll be secure. There’s no hurry. The funds are there; you’re not yet spent. Leave it for the night, sleep tight. In the morning you can eat peaches and cream to your heart’s discontent. It won’t be long and we’ll both head to that vault, but for now a morphine drip to help you slip into the calm breathing of the night; your last in skin. Now I dream of you, my father, and put on your orphaned socks. ![]() Bio: Betsy Mars is a poet, educator, and animal lover. She has a love for languages and other cultures which was born and nurtured during her years living in Brazil as a child. She is her best self when traveling, and sometimes even manages to be funny, though her children deny it, Her work has appeared in the California Quarterly, Silver Birch, and Gnarled Oak, among others, as well as in a number of anthologies. Her poetry can be found at https://marsmyst.wordpress.com/. Comments are closed.
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