The Robbery
A consummate thief,
this Alzheimer's.
Shrivelled body
(there wasn't much of her
before),rocking,
anxious.
For what?
For what is forgotten?
Wringing hands,
her eyes on heater's
cold blue flame,
chants softly her litany:
'God help me.'
Workstained hands
that plumped
a half a dozen pillows
round my head.
Deeply grieving,
she who loved -
no, loves -
me.
Asking, asking
why he hasn't come
who came an hour before:
'God help me!'
In the garden
at the 'home',
her frightened eyes
shot once to mine
and I saw her
still inside.
They led her away,
assuring me
she'd settle best alone.
She wanted me to come,
held out her hand mutely
to mine.
I didn't take it:
God help me.