Alone, I care for myself as for a body
someone left here by accident. The minimal act of conscience
is to feed it and see that its hands and face are clean.
The machinery of the house co-operates.
The dishwasher chugs, the ice-maker coughs up ice.
A lady comes in and dusts us each two weeks.
Picking the body up, carrying it
carefully upright (remembering how easily they fall
and come apart on the flights of concrete stairs)
I take it to see the internist, the neurologist,
the dentist, the analyst. It waits obediently
to have blood taken out of it and pills put in.
At night it collapses simply into sleep,
or if unconsciousness is at all delayed
I read it stories that it has heard before.
There must have been an intention about all this.
I wish whoever left it would come and get it
or mail me an address that I could send it to.
Leave a Reply