An evening light lullabies, although itís only
2pm. Thereís a talk show on the TV,
just the care staff tuning in. This moment
would be opportune for grandmother to disappear,
if she occupied the dado walls, sunk within
a high back chair, framed by brown and cream.
But she lurks beyond that labyrinth
of hallways, stairs and corridors, hunched above
a radio, trying to find her frequency,
turn up the correct combination, while below
the call is eyes down, dears, for Bingo!
Her place, her time is somewhere else.
This is not what she calls music.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Raymond Miller
would be pleased to hear them.