for Lena, Mary, and Helen

on the days that i wake old and tired
i reach down for my cane-
pat my blue fuzz into place-
wobble to the mirror-
click in teeth and glasses and prosthesis-
so much takes the place of flesh.

move out into the hall and look about
dodge the carts and Madge and Stu-
slowly inch along the rail to the door-
push and nudge my way out into the yard-
shuffle to my bench-
spread out my sweater and sit.

nice breeze this morning on my lap
across my leg and fluff up my skirt-
good day to wait for friends-
little movements into my hazy vision-
have to get this script updated-
the birds have arrived.

the smallest pigeon i call Mathilda
after my first, gone these ten years-
her companion a big grey Edward-
Tillie's husband gone off some place east-
a bundle of sparrows, my grandchildren-
chirping in turn, demanding my attention.

Tillie gets the piece of rye from last night
great sandwich, i had to share it-
Ed is tossed the dinner roll-
not too stale, filched from my roommate's tray-
he's got a big beak to match his noise-
their wee ones, croutons from my salad.

eating with my family makes me mindful
all these lonely old folks around here-
mumbling about Bingo and aches-
forgetting where they come from and who-
stumbling and rolling without an aim-
i really should introduce the poor dears to Tillie.