In the Grip of Dementia

In the Grip of Dementia

teased by crumbs of recognition
like the maple tree on third and main
she wends her way to the Legion Hall
only to discover the building
has been pulled out by the roots,
a yellow taped cavity warns “keep out”

she sulks back through the salient houses
each turn a maze of new data
the streets coalesce, fuse into alleys
her house finally appears on George Street
frantic she clutches the key to her porch
her kitchen has memory clamped on its walls

repetitious, as time on the blue plastic clock,
framed photos, oil painting of a stormy sky
without warning they rush toward her
blinking like digital readouts,
then flush into the wall, their swirling vortex
threatens to suck her inside out

she sits, but none of the variables settle,
instead, they escalate in volume, ring in her ears
she forgets their names, her name, she scans
the room for a stone bridge, a window,
anything with a ledge from which to leap
in a gush her kitchen slides into perspective

it quivers before her, vulnerable
as a new born kitten
just as fragile, her mind
is safe in the place it was running to

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