last night your hands held ( not me anymore )

each every fingers, on each other, no other thoughts come to their finger webs

each other, loosely, tightly, caressing

thought racing racing losing sleep as you turn your thoughts

to grandchildren, children from daughters who do not call, write touch you any more, silence — Monica cries on Zooms when she sees

your face, in your age you now look like her so, tears flow as lonely children without mother

Sara, your child, in her thirties is anxious over her losing her Queens Astoria apartment home as roommates fight to lonely deaths of relationship, of life, tears come as quietly as quickly as anxious, angry thoughts

these thoughts are your children; I had I have no lovemaking touch in their birthd

I cannot even wipe one away

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