I ask, just to pass the time.

Today for the first time
in a long string of days,
Old Shoe is lucid.

“He died in an avalanche.
No, it was a house fire
while I was on vacation. 
A car crash,” she said,
“No wait, he was delivering
the mail and a semi flattened
his cart. He was a lumberjack
and a widow-maker got him. He
was cut in two by a freight train.
He was playing golf when lightning
struck him beside the fourth hole.
When he was skydiving 
his parachute failed to open.
He died of syphilis. He died
of an overdose.”

At this point I realize 
she hasn’t regained the ability
to think clearly.