The Book of Weston

My grandmother and I

    stare together at

        the deafening

TV, and her voice says, "Thank you

    for being here," but

        I don't know where

she is, and louder

    than the TV or her appreciation,

        I hear fear

and I see what she sees two days from now:

    my dim hand waving from

        inside the grey

vehicle carrying me away

    to an unclear destination

        (for how long?)

and I see her still as a stone

    at the kitchen table

        staring through

the thick glass sliding door

        at the virgin pool,

        glittering,

blooming with algae

    and the birds appearing

        and disappearing.