The Next Bed Over

nursing home

someone died again 

next bed over

light spilling across the sill

and spread 

voices in the hall 

softer than the TV blaring 

across the breezeway 

no flowers in the vase 

on the cheap dresser 

someone long ago painted 

green vines and red berries 

no picture frames of smiling children 

now gray who recently visited 

again introducing themselves 

again being careful 

to not use the word “remember” 

dry lips were not covered by a mask 

but wet only by raspy breath 

heard between quiet moans 

like a dreaming child's when lost 

in a crowd of unfamiliar faces 

and strange geometries of light 

earlier they were comforted 

by song and story 

faith and myth 

a warm hand 

by an early evening bird-song 

or even just 

rain on the roof 

now it was quiet... 

listen passed sound 

listen hard into the silence 

a soft rustle of a silk sundress 

the scratch of a pen on paper 

light brush of fingertips through long hair 

listen to all the sounds 

memory makes 

when leaving