The Rest Home

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 say. “I’m not Tom.”
Confusion clouds your once bright eyes
and silence numbs your tongue
while fingers fiddle across the air,
sewing cloth I cannot see.
I’ve never known this man. He is not who he is.
“What is this place?” He asks again.
What is this place, indeed.

©JP Reese 2011
April, 2011 Rose & Thorn Journal http://www.roseandthornjournal.com/Spring_2011_Poet6.html

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