Poetry

Warm Hands, Cold Knuckles

By: T. R. Bates

“My hands are warm,
But my knuckles are cold,” Barbara announces.
I tell her it’s because there’s no blood in your knuckles.
This is an example of our conversation these days.
Her world has shrunk and getting smaller.
Observations are minutely focused and close to home.
She likes to feel safe with no distractions.
Nothing new to upset the routine.
While at the computer, I feel guilty I’m ignoring her.
But as long as we’re in the same room, she’s happy, she says.
She loves looking out over her flower gardens,
Though she no longer knows their names.
Everything is perfect except for her brain.
Click, click, click, goes the mouse and keys.
Tick, tick, tick, goes the clock.
Sweet, sweet, sweet, goes the oriole outside.
“I love you,” goes Barbara.
“I love you, too hon,” I say back.
“That works out well, doesn’t it?” she replies.
Yes it does.

Categories: Poetry

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