Half-past midnight, I wonder are the oxygen sats going to sustain life for ten more hours? Better go over and check this cold November night. Walk the crunching snow, almost shivering until through the door into another warm and toasty house. Listen if I hear the ragged wheezing of the bed's occupant. The room has the overpowering stench of old-person poo because a rotten Depend is packed and leaking. I consider at that moment, is there poetry in poo? If I lyricize it in a poem, do I have a potty mouth? Human excrement and the process of producing it have been the stuff of humorists since we, like bears, did it in the woods. But here is a helpless older person unable to manage the most rudimentary of self-care. Therefore, it falls to me. I'll spare you the runny details - or should I? Let me assure you, I didn't see any humor in it. I was tempted with anger and impatience. I wiped only to be squirted on like endless chocolate fondue. I used half a roll and was up to my elbows in you-know-what, while the perpetrator rested comfortably squeezing out more into my waiting gloved hands. He was not a bit thankful for the necessary but unpleasant ministrations he was the recipient of. I have to remember, we all become high maintenance at certain junctures of our short lifespan.
Can’t Get the Stink Off My Hands