She remembers when
my brother saw a crow
perched on the metal
frame of his hospital bed,
his brain inflamed making him talk
through his hat about phantoms,

but it's her brain all fired up now:
she thinks she has visitors -- my sister –
perched at the foot of her bed,
my brother and his wife
waiting in the living room
sitting in the antique wing chairs.

She must throw off her silk comforter
what she has always called her puff,
get up, get dressed, or else
they'll think her rude or worse
worry there's something gone wrong
that she's taken to bed
in what she thinks is daylight.

When the word hardware comes to her
she remembers where clothes are kept,
knows the ornate brass drawer pulls
will be cold to the touch:
but she must make herself presentable,

tug and pull to get into the mahogany bureau
rummage around in lingerie, choosing
a flimsy faded pink camisole –no bra –
she's not going out today – some silk
fancy pants trimmed in Raschel lace.



But the armoire choices prove most baffling:
blouses, sweaters, no slacks – she never wore
slacks – but there are dresses in six sizes.

A mad shopper, she is lost in the racks
trying to find just the right skirt to Wow
while the wire hangers put up a good fight
intertwined on the pole, Now where is that
Nile green gown? the one she remembers
she wore just once in the forties to a dance.

Struggling for balance she manages
to dress herself, pulls through
her wispy fine white hair
the familiar soft bristle brush
she used grooming all four babies.

Ready, down the corridor she goes
expecting to find her visitors waiting

but her roomy house is eerie,
just full of night missing its moon and
she is alone, the clock ticking away
on the Governor Winthrop desk,
time illuminated in a dark corner
of the next room.