My mother says she never died before,
although she watched my dad and others end.
She runs to doctors clamoring for more
advice and medications to extend
a life she’s finding tiresome and sad.
“I want to get this diagnosed and fixed,”
she often states, while jotting on a pad
the side-effects to every med she nixed.

She wants to pedal backwards to the age
when she and Dad were fighting well. Her prime
is bright in front of her. She has no gauge
or filter and she’s using up her time
with petulant complaints and blinkered sight
that can’t detect the fast-approaching night.