Mrs. McCarthy from the nursing home
calls again to complain
that she doesn’t have the staff
to change my father’s socks
twice a day.
I try to explain, he wore a suit and
tie
to work every day for fifty years.
When he came home
he hung up his clothes
took down a clean
sports shirt
and put on a fresh pair of socks.
Well, she replies,
this isn’t home,
you better come over and talk to him.
Down the corridor to his room
I remember the stories he told
of selling newspapers in the Great
Depression.
Too poor to buy socks
he stuffed yesterday’s unsold copies
into his shoes, the newsprint
turned his toes black.
Tonight, his room smells sour,
filled with heat. A Posey holds him
upright
in a chair next to a closed window.
His nipples are outlined in orange
juice stains
on his white tee shirt.
On the bedside table, a hearing aid
leans against an empty glass
with a bent straw.
I kneel down and yell
into his ear,
You’re in a fucking wheel chair all
day,
you don’t need to change your socks.
He lowers his head and says nothing
as I fumble through the top bureau
drawer
looking for his favorite pair
of blue cotton argyles.
Richard Rocco