I am Sad

I am sad.
I am sad that people,
Old people,
Parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters,
Uncles and aunts
Live out their dying days in nursing homes.
I am sad that
Mr. James walks up and down the corridors
Alarm attached to his ankle
Pushing on every door
Searching for a way out.
I am sad that
Muriel called her adult children too many times last night.
They called the nurse to complain.
I am sad that
Gretchen packs her bags each night and waits for her children to come to take her home.
And Dot wanders the halls for hours until a nurse orders up a sedative.
Dot is agitated she says
But really Dot is just an annoyance
Causing anxiety in her caretakers.
As their surrogate she'll take the sedative for them.
I am sad that
Marge died alone,
And Selma never gets to have a bread stick or a biscuit in the afternoon.
Mr. Powers sits in a chair on the far edge of the room while the young woman raises her arms up and down leading the exercises.
She hollers encouragement in a sing song voice
American patriotic music blaring
His eyes are closed tight, his face in anguish.
I am sad
That he is sad.

Poetry of Timothy J. Nolan

The Dreams of the Old

So they are around our table—my mother,
my father, an uncle—and we begin to talk
about our dreams—with some urgency—
as if our dreams could pinpoint our psychic
dangers—our unrealized goals—our
ordinary fear of death and the future.
My mother talks about her dreams of flying
over the little town where she grew up—
over the old Opera House—down Main Street—
with all the people she knew below her—
then towards the gently flowing river—
that seemed to flow into the sunset—
toward which she soared—she lingered
with us on that image—as if she had said
enough—then—my uncle talked about
his recurring dream—he's going to be
in a play—but no one's bothered
to rehearse the scenes—he's standing
in the wings waiting to go on—he doesn't
know what he will say—all through this
my father is silent—he is closest to death—
we all know this—we forgive him his silence—
his silence—has his presence—as in a dream.


The Eulogy

He could be funny, but only in small groups
of meek women—which is to say—he was not
very funny. He had beautiful and expressive
hands which he normally kept in his pockets.
When he was roused to passion, as he seldom was,
it would usually go unnoticed. He did have
strong feelings for animals—his family crest included
the loon—that symbol of fidelity and lonely song.
He was quite a mimic—I personally remember
how he could sound just like Bobby Kennedy—underwater—
if he was drunk enough. I suppose you all remember
his obsession with orchids—it was strange at the end—
his fretting over their blossoming—when would it happen?
Then, his disappointment when they would fade and drop.
He was a collector of sales receipts—some of you
may not know this—he would ask you to empty
your pockets to show him where you’d been, what you bought.
At his confirmation on June 4, 1954, he chose a verse
from the Old Testament, The Book of Haggai—“He that
earneth wages earneth wages to put in a bag with a hole.
Consider your ways, sayeth the Lord.” Let us consider
him . . . as we head downstairs. There must be other stories.

BIFOCAL dec 2006

A Death Noticed

According to the article in the New York Times today, "Neighbors Reflect on a Death No One Noticed", by Andy Newman . . .

“For the last years of her life, Christina Copeman kept to herself.”

Her neighbors wondered and worried about her. When they saw her on the street they tried to engage her in conversation. She was not interested. They watched the mail pile up outside her door. When she was finally found inside her row house, dressed in winter coat and beret, she’d been dead for a year or more. She would have been seventy.

I never knew Christina Copemen. But I’ll remember her.