Forgot

As I spoke to her, the hands,
the ones that used to pat my head,
moved around of their own accord
primping disheveled wedding white hair.

Zoe never complains, and fancies herself
a queen in that hollow nursing home.
She stills has nails of deep red and
wears night gowns with flowers galore.

But Zoe reads the first page over and over,
because her decaying mind can’t remember.
Flowers, books, stuffed animals, ornaments,
cards, and me surround her crisp full sized bed.

I wonder if she’ll remember my visit, but
she called me by name so I know that in those
old brown eyes recognition has yet to ghost.
She’ll surely tell the old hens about her beloved nephew.

I ache for Zoe, I guess because she feels no pain.
Nestled in her lap are her weathered hands,
and as she stares out the window I muse about
if her days of glory come gently streaming back.