But Isn't.(Poem)

 
BUT ISN'T 
 
   Six weeks: there's hair again, a man's stubble, 
   Prison-tough, it's almost voguish, 
   The style of those normally denied style. 
   Stranded there her glasses are like something left 
   On a park seat--silly out of use even comical. 
   A magazine, slipped from her hands, hangs. 
   Just hangs. She snoozes in a blue track suit. 
   Dried spit's salted her lips. 
 
   Cloudily awake she tries to mouth 
   But cannot speak. 
   The tracheotomy tube burbles, 
   Saliva dribbles from the right side, 
   Wets the pillow to that shade of grey 
   Our uniforms had when she ironed them 
   Every Saturday afternoon, every Saturday. 
 
   She moves her hand, her right, the disabled side, 
   --The sudden-heaved, summoned effort reminds me 
   Of a man lumping a bag of cement. 
   Almost reptilian, it claws, crab-like and ugly. 
   So slow. It seems just too much. 
   You want to help, "Here, let me ..." 
   The hand inches toward the top-left corner 
   Like an insect, or a beast 
   Yoked to an impossible weight. 
 
   Curiously, she doesn't look as old as she ...