Margaret
In the room
behind the door half closed
the stench taking up the corridor
Margaret bleeds onto the sheet
and cries about her daughter,
the one that "got busted for crack"
She sits up, two bandaged legs
some greasy salve
for the open the sores on her back
and I hang the nightly IV med,
sure to make her vomit
I am dreaming for her
and we are sitting in a
meadow, her grandchildren
loving her hands and feet, her
daughter handing us bouquets, and
laughter echoing down open spaces
instead of her moans and cries
A horse drawn carriage brings
Margaret to her Savannah mansion,
a door open to all her art deco rooms,
and she is breathing in the fresh air
of her lost disease.
And as I shut the light over her bed
and close the door to her room,
Margaret whispers a thank you.
lm angel delsanto
december, 2005
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