The Rest Home
poem by J.P. Reese

Here, at the other end of your life
you drift in dreams
and do not know my name.
Today I am Tom, a brother,
the younger, the favorite.
“Dad, I’m not Tom” I say.
Confusion clouds your once bright eyes
and silence numbs your tongue
while fingers fiddle across the air,
sewing cloth I cannot see.
I have never known this man.
He is not who he is.
“What is this place?” he asks again.
What is this place, indeed.

This entry was posted on May 21, 2012 at 5:28 pm and is filed under Poem, Poets. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.