My Sonnet to Bruce
By Mary Bloomer
Those tatted, twisted tangles in your brain,
They breed the sadness in those eyes of blue,
Wreak damage, cause dementia – mental pain;
There is no mercy in the waste they do.
You sit almost immobile in your chair;
You must depend on others to be fed;
They give you baths and brush your ungrayed hair;
A Vander-Lift will hoist you to your bed.
I see that tear roll slowly down your cheek.
It’s your response to music soft and sweet.
You process what you hear, but cannot speak.
No words will come out right – no phrases neat.
Only death will free these snarls and turn you loose:
“I hope in dreams you’re free, my gentle Bruce.”