Prayer of the Unworthy

{A poem from when my father was in the hospital, invoking the spirit of my mother, the poet.  Thanks for reading.}

 

A channeler of style,

A sycophant of fluff,

I’m churning milky memories,

Here, sitting on my duff:

 

Your oh-so-many notebooks;

Your gnarled, arthritic hands.

Oh, can’t you please extend them

To soothe this suffering man?

 

And had I read each notebook

You wrote posterity,

I’d only speak in echoes,

Conflating you and me.

 

Perhaps that would explain why

(Without assigning blame)

Half the time he looks at me,

He calls me by your name.

 

Copyright 2019 Andrea LeDew