Too Bad for Them
She stands at the entrance to the basement
if I know what it is that she wants
down below, in the cold and the dark.
Potatoes, I suggest. Carrots. Tomatoes.
A bottle of wine. Mosquito repellent.
Paint. Vise grips. The hammer. Nothing
clicks. It seemed very important,
A moment ago, she says, but now I can’t
There’s something wrong with my brain.
All my friends have forgotten me,
she says. They have such busy,
Interesting lives, and here I sit,
going to pieces.
If they don’t want to call me,
too bad for them. I may be slow,
I may be dull, but they’d be surprised
What I know, if they would give me
half a chance.
To hell with them. Something saps
her energy, drags her down, weakens
her will to live. Every catastrophe
Has an upside, something that lifts
First, there’s the rain, then the rainbow.
Not every time, but often enough.