She’s still living with

the consolation-prize cat.

“Haughty,” she says.

“Patches gives me the cold shoulder.”

My grandmother, the cat,

and I, all green eyed,

all on the couch.

“They are building a new

Alzheimer’s unit,” she says.

“I don’t think I have it.

Do you?”

The cat jumps to the

windowsill to watch the

men, bandanas over their necks,

they blow the lily trimmings

away with screaming machines.

“That must be scary,” I say.

Living where people die

all the time.

The man with the oxygen,

he stopped coming down to his chair.

She lives in a past-the-expiration-

date place now.

She knows there’s a “spoiled” place.

The lilies wear red hats

and dry June has taken the

green from their spines.

“I don’t know,” I tell her.

“But people will take care of you.”

“There’s nothing on television,”

she says.

“But then, I’m a cranky

old lady.”

And for someone else–

what an unusual wish–

I wish there was

something on television.

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