Thursday, 11 April 2013

NaPoWriMo Day 11 Poem 8 Thatcher On Dementia

Mark said something about war yesterday, I never want to hear that word again, it’s a word that keeps you out of sleep. Mark was never a real politician, he doesn’t understand. Carol tells me I’m losing my memory, it’s true, it feels like losing the keys to your house. I know what it is to lose a key. 1990, I left my house and unpacked my tears in the taxi. Sometimes I find keys in my sleep, I get to feel my heels on the carpet behind that tremendous Number 10. But when I go upstairs, the other doors are locked; I have lost everything that I kept behind them. There is no iron left, I’m just a lady that can’t open her own door.

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