As I entered your building,

it smelled of urine.

All the elderly gather there,

and die young at heart.

 

You confuse time,

You cannot operate the alarm clock

You cannot operate the telephone.

You don’t know how to tie a tie

You don’t know who to call.

 

You are my Opa,

My Opa I love.

 

Today you slept.

While I visited.

 

I read your book of letters.

You wrote Oma for 65 years.

Mother’s Day. Anniversary. Birthdays. War Letters.

You have experienced something I never have.

 

We’ve recently discussed.

That I have been looking.

Looking for one.

 

Going on dates.

Here and there.

Every time I phone you now,

You ask,

“Still looking?”

 

Yes,

Opa.

I am still looking.

 

If I could have

Just one second

Of the amount of love

You and Oma had,

I’d be happy.

 

Couldn’t help but think,

As you slept on the couch,

If I should suffocate you,

And let you be with Oma,

Once more; forever.

 

 

© 2005 David Greg Harth

05.07.07.01:30:00@296NYC