by Tim Gavin
When you couldn’t bend and each
Movement your pain spiked, I tied
Your shoes and emptied the dishwasher
And served stew and soup and mashed
Potatoes the way you like them with red skins.
It’s all part of the mix; each time—you felt guilty—each time
I spent hours away for the office and bathed you
In soapy water and combed your hair
And dressed you as if we made reservations
To our favorite restaurant—you know the one
With paintings of dogs and the k-nine motif;
And we played music—your favorite country artists
Strumming ballads in the back
Of the pick-up trucks after shooting darts
And drinking shots and square dancing
To the live band but out of step to their rhythm
And we laughed with the howling dogs.