I pull into the driveway
and park facing the sign that says
Warning: Bad Dog.
Usually it delights her.
"We're here at my house," I say
but she does not answer.
Her hand, resting with fingers in
the can of cashews,
does not stir.
She remains bent over to her left,
her elbow on the arm rest,
her eyes closed behind sunglasses.
What an elegance she presents:
pleated white wool skirt,
yellow-checked blouse with appliques
(daffodils and butterflies)
open over a yellow turtleneck,
pearls, green earrings,
straw hat tied 'round her neck with a scarf.
She snores now and her hand stirs.
Dr. Lewy would understand:
it's a sleepy day.