Sunday With My Mother

She wanders in and out of dreams
and cannot tell the difference.
The people of the night, it seems,
create the day’s agenda.
She follows phantoms down the path
wherever they may send her.
Old houses merge into this house,
old friends, in throngs, attend her.
The door is gone that once stood there,
the chairs misplaced,
the rooms askew,
and only I defend her.
The cellars vanished in the night,
everything is turned about,
she does not know the reason.
Old age has finally found her out,
this is the final season,
but laughter, when I find the way,
battles this confusion.
I feel sad but make her smile.
It beats the blackguards from our gates
and brings some respite, for a while,
and frees me from illusions.

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