by Kay Robertson

Son dips wash cloth in warm water,
soapsuds slip over latex-gloved hands,
with gentle thoroughness, he washes
his father’s thin-skinned, blue veined flesh.

He holds the long-fingered hands,
remembers Dad playing the piano.
Memory of beloved music,
like the name of his only child,
has faded away.

Kay Robertson lives near Puget Sound in Washington State. Always an avid reader, semi-retired at sixty-five, she started writing poetry and joined an on-line poetry group at Writers Village University. Her work appears in Pirene’s Fountain Japan Anthology, Soundings Review, Loch Raven Review, Sugar Mule.