When you wake from a troubled sleep,
     after you’ve used the bathroom, don’t go back.
Walk down the hall and push her hollow-core
     door open. She’ll be there, smaller than the last time
you visited her, sitting on the side of the bed
     having just used her commode. Before
she can ask, walk to it and lift the cover,
     then the seat. Pull out the bucket that holds
her still warm urine, take it to her bathroom,
     empty it in the toilet. Wipe it out. Rinse it. Dry it.
Spray it with lavender-scented Lysol. Return it
     to the O-ring. Cover it. Lower the seat and lid.
Accept what love is now the wars have ended.
     Say, do you need anything else?
She’ll say, I could’ve done it myself, and it’s true
     but she’s fallen so many times from her glaucoma
or vertigo or both. Unwilling to wait, she’s tipped
     the bucket—urine all over the tile and the rug—
half a day’s cleaning for her aide after lifting her
     from the floor.
Just smile and ask, do you want help with the bed?
     And together begin to stretch the rumpled sheets
in place, then the coverlet and the coral crocheted
     afghan you made that rests near the edge.
Replace the pillows. Then help her bent body inch
     toward the wheelchair. It’s time for her shower.
Today, you’ll do this together like two women in a
     French painting. Her dentures she’ll clean on her own.