Interrogation

Every day somewhere, there is a middle-aged woman Who stands above some wheel-chair bound, some bedridden person Someone wrinkled and blanketed, who seems uncaring about anything. And she says, 'Mother; Grandfather, do you know who I am; Who this is; who that is, can you remember? ' As if it were of paramount importance each day That we remember to keep putting that mask on, The one with the ties flapping in the wind, Behind so much increasing emptiness; The ties that bind us to others. And the truth is that our minds have capable plumbing systems And once they begin to overflow due to disease, old age, The flushing begins, gently at first, Then more all the time, until our images and memories Begin to swirl down the vortex too, taking our identity with them. All that's left of us then are some cards in wallets, payment stubs, Some numbers; bank accounts that we can no longer manage. And that woman or man, standing over us, Is become the worst nuisance then, sent to torture us daily With that tired expression, of patient reckoning. So that we must strain to remember why it is so important That we have to try so hard, to grasp hold of things That have disappeared on us, and we have to wonder What could be so important, after all? And on the worst days, we come back just enough to know That we have forgotten so much more Than they could ever comprehend, our Interrogators; Always there just above us, with their bottomless, questioning gaze.