A year ago, assisted with her living,
We'll Meet Again she sang with me.
Tonight it might as well have been a wind chime
she can't recall a single word
as Gina asks her Daddy why
she has to sing for her. He says "The rhyme
will help make Nonna sleep,"
but after rock-a-by
the baby falls, she twitters like a bird.
While both the aides put on their latex gloves,
I whisper, "Mamma," cheek to cheek, "Capishe?
Those songs we treasured never will be lost,
the World War Two that swung,
and even country lovelorn twang"
that was so Bronx Italian wrong.
Where Gina hears some bird that chirps, the noise
I hear is Vera Lynn
when 1-2-3 the glove worn aides
turn bedsores up.
It's Mona's song.