Not Exactly Sharon Olds

She can't talk to her father.
Not only has he developed a hearing loss
over the past 20 years,
but he has never even tried to compensate.

Instead, he talks.
And talks.

The only speech he seems to understand
is the last three words or so
of his own dialogue echoed back to him:

"Did you have a good Thanksgiving?"

"Yeah, real good."

"Your mother and I went to see Grandma."

"Saw Grandma?"

"Well, she's not doing too good."

"Not doing too good?"

"No. She's half out of her mind. Doesn't
know who people are--thinks Grandpa is in the hospital."

"In the hospital?"

"Yeah. We don't have the heart to keep telling her.
No one should go through that much pain."

"Not that much pain."

"No. There's a book the kids are suppose to sign--"

"A book?"

"but you never know if someone's been in
and forgot to sign. So your mom went down
with her sister Judy."

"Judy? How's she?"

And the conversation goes on and on,
quite painfully.
She tries to keep her echos to a five word minimum.

MTV has helped with that, she supposes.

He rarely asks about her life,
and only wants to hear her troubles.
Success escapes in mutters--quick jabs
that end the conversation quicker than
an injected antibiotic.

Laments seem to be his
aging lullaby--a rythmic solace.
Twain would be proud;
Faulckner, unsympathetic.

I can believe, oh too easily,
in this dark, hollow caricature
with filmy, beady, little blue eye balls.