The mind of the one I love
has left me in a foreign
country called Caregiver.

The day begins with medications:
Twelve in the AM,
Four in the afternoon,
Twelve at bedtime.

At breakfast, endless talk of pain,
appointments, disappointments.

Where did she go, my Gold Hill girl?

I get the pills, make the dinners,
do the dishes, go shopping,
take out the garbage, feed the dog,
feed the cat.

I try not to think about
the old conversations,
the inside jokes,
fifty years of romance,

or the mourning dove we saw
standing helplessly next to
the crushed body of its mate
on Lake Grove Road.

I’m like Bib, my best friend’s dog
when we were eight years old.
Bib only had three legs, but
he didn’t seem to notice.