A Mortal Feast

 
It will not behave
The spoon
shakes in her hand
spills food
she does not see
marooning forgotten morsels
oblivious at her feet

There are no mice
but I imagine them
as punctual as the priest
crowding in
with their fat little bellies
each funeral and mealtime
a sumptuous feast

I'll imagine anything
not to stare too closely
for I'm blind to digest
this course of too much detail
My contempt an aperitif
swallowing the toll of her years
knowing every sip
winds my own clock faster
stalking the mortal
with ripening fears

I remember when
we rushed through mountains
to be free for the joys of play
though now I wait silent
while Mother
takes her longest time
but barely eats a thing
before I hurry the plates away