My Father

My father would arouse

From a bad dream

Screaming “Mama” “Mama”

Who didn’t care much

For loving anybody and

Certainly not him.

He would stumble into the

Bathroom to wash his face

And back to the bedroom

To his wife’s soft voice,

His wife, my mother

Who loved him dearly.

Now in the Nursing Home

Rows of doors behind which

People like my father call:

Help Help and No No.