West Palm Beach: A Poem by Marla Chalnick

West Palm Beach

My mother is waiting to die in her sleep.
Her brain has been scrubbed clean.
I struggle to trust this renovation.

My 90-year-old mother lives alone in
a row of condos that resemble army barracks.
She is surrounded by counters covered,
closets overstuffed, piles, boxes
leave little room for her to move about.
It’s the kind of place where middle class
New York Jews go to live with disappointment.
Looking forward to the Early Bird Specials,
they wait to die, just not yet.

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