After the stroke
he couldn’t remember
much, was the woman
in white who bathed him
his wife or someone
he slept with once
before he had gotten
married. Monogamy
was a word that he
remembered, though not
its meaning, or why he
had sworn to abide it.
When the aide brought
in the flowers, they smelled
familiar, like the odor
of capon slowly boiling
on the Sabbath stove.
He heard the concerto
small radio tinny, but it
sounded strange, gut
of cat sawed across strings
crying out against
the injustice of it all
and the chair against
the window, was it one
he sat on at the edge
of the stage, bowing
to the audience as
Mozart’s crescendo
still echoed in his ears.
an old writer and his words 