He can’t concentrate on tv
or the 500-piece puzzle spread
across the dining room table
and the phone rings all day long.
His ready-smile is arrested half-mast
shoves himself from living room couch
to his bed, unmade since Momma
went into the hospital, his laundry
scattered through the first floor –
not a single sock of his in the cellar
by the gleaming white Maytag pair
she had to have and never once used.

It pisses him off, such a big chunk
from his monthly disability check but still
he refuses to go down there, doesn’t want
to figure out all those settings, dials
load size, temperature and besides
her house dresses and underthings
are down there and he just can’t bear
to be near them.

He should have moved out years ago
but he was all she had, and she just had
to go downstairs that day, slipped
on the top step, tripped, tumbled, fell hard,
still screaming at him, broke her hip –
finally the quiet he longed for, pushed for
for so long – yet strangely, he misses her
daily naggings. It’ll be days before
she goes for rehab, who knows how long
before they’ll send her home
and now he can never go; she’ll see to that.

He’s afraid to leave the house,
afraid to answer the phone, afraid he’ll tell
someone what really happened,
and he is so very hungry.

J R (Judy) Turek, LIP&LR Poet-in-Residence 2024-2029; workshop leader, editor, mentor, 2 pushcart nominations, recipient of the Conklin Prize for Poetry; published in Korean, Romanian, French, and Italian. She hosts poetry at East Meadow Library, Levittown Town Hall, and Eisenhower Park. 9 books of poetry, poem-a-dayer for 20 years. She collects dogs, shoes, and poems.