Tonight I wear a heart monitor.
I wonder about the arteries in my neck.
Could they be closing?
Poppa wore one before he refused a second surgery.
I watched him decline as plaque blocked his arteries.
With the words, “No more hunting,” I took his shotgun.
His car keys went when he opened a car door without looking.
A truck struck the door. Its license plate faded in the distance.
When voices filled his head, he went to a locked ward.
He returned changed by medications.
The voices remained, but no longer threatened him.
Special locks on my doors prevented his escape.
Like a young child, he went to a daycare center
so I could continue to work.
As I contemplate my father, forgetting who I was,
and forgetting his own name, I know I will not sleep tonight.
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