It is dusk
I drive east from the
Retirement community
And think to myself alone,
“I am floundering.”

Do flounder actually flounder?
Or is it only a human thing,
This floundering?

I have seen a flounder
Fighting for her life
On the end of my fishing line
Wobbling, wiggling fretfully
This, I think, is different

(Or is it) from the
Floundering I am participating
In this evening

Struggling, staggering
To find my way
Wondering if I will ever find
The next place
The right words

The calmer
More settled state of being
Balanced, satisfied

These are the things I am longing for
As the sun sets behind me
It is in fear that the flounder
Wiggles and writhes
Wasting precious energy

Protesting the sudden upheaval
Of her circumstance
From her comfortable watery home

Different from my predicament
(Or is it?) Is this what I am doing too?
Chasing after some tasty morsel I cannot define
I discover myself hanging from an irresistible line
Chafing at the hook

November 2, 2015

This entry was posted in Alzheimer's, Dementia, Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to Floundering

  1. Joan says:

    An apt and painfully beautiful description, Janie. I love the extended metaphor and the closing 2 lines. Thank you.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s