by Bill E. Goldberg
I read him poetry,
and he cries.
Heís eighty two and has Alzheimerís.
Itís a joy being with him now,
an opportunity to come from the heart
and leave my mind,
as his mind, at times, leaves him.
I recite poetry with feeling.
He loves the feeling behind the words.
He can hardly speak at all, yet he understands a
I talk to him as an intelligent man,
and it connects with his memory of self-respect.
He yearns to be respected,
for people to see beyond his crippled mind,
and see what he was and still is underneath it all.
So I read, and he responds
with broken words, tears,
and a full heart.