Donut Holes

It was an anthology of grief, it was.
Tilted bed pans. Dusty thumbs
pressed against the buzzer need.
Ammonia stains upon tight sheets,
with hurried palms to play their drums.
All her stray alyssum seeds
needed a garden to sow their oats.
A cherish turf without much grass
when Florence died.
A pounding heart was puppies
sleeping in the shade.
A thick asbestos camisole
that needed doses of the fire.

Volunteering seemed the thing.
She did it for the soul's release.
If God has armpits, this is it,
she told herself.
Truth in spurts of turtle slow
clamoring for one last slam.
She toted ice chips down the hall,
helped a man find bedroom slippers
no more than inches out of reach.
Dallied while they told their stories
growing with the moss of age.

My kids will come. I know they will.
It's almost almost Mother's Day!
Quick visitors were chocolate bars
and Don Quixote on a horse
that melted in the mouth of "old."
She took the horns and rode the bull,
learning lumps of sugar cane.
They start out tall and end up small
in geriatric infancy.
Tablecloths were diaper sheets
and messes to undo at night.

Apostles with a cup of candy;
too much melting going on.
Lunch pail wisdoms in her bowl,
the passing of an apple's core.
Moons around her fingernails
started out as taking wafers,
shriveled raisins in a prison,
found they could be, could be grapes.
Volunteering seemed the thing.
She did it for the soul's release.
Came back fuller packages.
Walked away with donut holes.

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