I had a poem published in an anthology, Memory and Loss. Unfortunately for me, the editor left out the last four lines. Here is the poem as I wrote and submitted it:
by Ruth Latta
We left him in the common room
clapping to the rhythm of a country band.
She'd warned us not to say goodbye.
"It's best if we just slip away.
If he knows I'm leaving he gets upset."
On the hour-long return to her place
I pictured her driving alone
through sleet and snow
three times a week.
"You're a wonderful wife to him," I blurted.
"It's my job," she said calmly.
"The staff know a lot about Alzheimers
but I'm the one who knows the most