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I wonder when her mind started to overflow
so much that she couldn’t control the direction
like a garden hose left on by some kid
without a hand to guide the water to the lilacs
just starts whipping around the yard, dancing
like one of those avant garde troupes, supposedly artful.

I wonder if it was after her husband’s death
or if I was just too young to know when I could talk
adult to someone much older so I didn’t notice
the train careening wildly off track. It was more
of an adventure then, discovering suddenly the end
of the line left you at some guilt ridden station
or a park full of dead Jews. But now the ride isn’t there,
shut down and the places aren’t places but flailing arms
grasping for a piece of logic here, a piece of logic there
and only getting random assortments
of an eighty year old life unraveling at the end.