Charge

We bear down hard on our enfeebled,

our altered ones, even as we avert our eyes

from the spectacle of their personal devastation:

his stringy biceps as he tugs on a swim-cap;

her once girlish gait listing like a shipwreck.

In our dreams we hear the snap

of latex gloves as we hand over

the moment of our indecision. At dawn

we set about straightening the house, 

closing closet doors on the skeleton of memory.

The brain’s wiring unravels backward. We lose first

what was foremost. So when your aging brother strides out,

eccentric, sway-backed as a soldier mocking himself, seeking

persistently exciting inputs that will charge him up enough

to take one more run at you, you stand defenseless

on the doorstep, waving your something red.

-first appeared in The Listening Eye