Forgotten
Is it simply forgotten
or not remembered?
My father coughs
through his days,
asking for answers
only his brother knows.
Some books are better
read from the end,
he says. I don’t know
what to do.
He tries to spell his name
but the letters elude him,
teetering between symbol
and thought and choice.
The chair tips over
when I lean too far back,
replacing memories
with hardwood
and a new bruise
coloring my thoughts.
This word, that one.
A face, the date.
Last Tuesday’s crumb.
The floor accepts us all.
* * *
“Forgotten” first appeared in ISACOUSTIC* in January 2018.
O at the Edges 
what a powerful read
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Thanks very much, Kiya.
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I can sure relate to this with both my parents. A touching memoir.
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It is a reality that all too many of us face.
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Sometimes I feel like a crumb on the floor. Great poem!
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I can identify with that, Walt. Thank you.
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My pleasure.
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