“I want the pill,” our ancient mother said,
last week when she was suffering fatigue
and urgent emptying of waste, instead
of constipation’s regular beleague.
She has her mind. No terminal disease
besets her at the age of 96.
Distrusting all her meds, she voices pleas
of petulance, impatient for a fix.
We calmly then responded and explained
it takes some time and interviews to kill.
“Oh pooh. I gave it to you dad,” she claimed.
Of course that wasn’t so. There was no pill,
she wasn’t there, and it’s no mystery –
she always has revised her history.