sunday visit

my grandmother dying seems the white of flour
     measured in thermos tops 
     her heart a pounding waltz 
of bush elephants her soul a nosegay 
or ticket stub ready in hand 
     words colliding unspoken 
     crowd her thoughts a zoo 
of pressed faces her eyes squinting amusement 
laugh the stoppage of language 
     its senseless tyranny useless ambition 
her visitors articulate every which way to sunday
muted now by the room’s ventilation she thinks
melancholy mad these animals their great ears

© Dean Steadman