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Happy last day of Poetry Month 2014!

I wish I felt happy.

My sister and I are in the middle of taking care of my 91-year old mother, as are so many of our peers. I don’t recommend it if you can avoid this life chapter. I’m trying to book a business class ticket to a beachside resort in Denial, but it’s not looking good.

I thought I’d ask Mom to help come up with one last metaphor for the MetaphorAffair I’ve been having this month.  And she did.

These are just rough notes; I’ve taken some liberties to leave stuff out and put stuff in…but essentially this is straight dictation: material for a poem to be written during a calmer period of my life, perhaps…


A thief. A thief takes all your assets,
she says lying on the couch,
looking thin, grey, and so very small.

The thief sneaks in,
taking your confidence.
A thief takes everything you own.

You’re in your house that’s suddenly invaded by—
what do you call them? Aliens.
Those little guys in the sky.

Aliens that give you pain—
a terrible headache, just on the left side,
and stomach aches.

Aging is a thief who takes your memory.
You forget spoken words.
But not music.


I drew this in November, 2010, after Mom and I walked around a park in Malibu...and suddenly I was the parent

I drew this in November, 2010, after Mom and I walked around a park in Malibu…and suddenly I was the parent



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