"Don't listen

to weird podcasts

outside on full volume."

Glance around,

embarrassed,

face burning,

ears pink.

Snatch Mom's phone

and hasten to pause

the loud chatter.

"Don't try

so many samples

at Costco."

Glance around

at the crowd of people,

uncomfortable,

ashamed.

Push Mom away

and pretend to be

a stranger nearby.

"Don't point

at the houses

that aren't yours."

Glance around,

hoping the owners

won't see her,

mortified.

Grab her arm

and force it down

with a tired sigh.

"Don't stay

on your phone

day and night."

Glance at her

sitting on the couch,

irritated,

upset.

Take the pickleball set

we once actually used

and give it away.

"Don't smoke

in the neighborhood

after dinner."

Glance around,

humiliated,

praying our neighbors

won't ever notice.

Slap the e-cig

out of her hand

in desperation.

"Don't drink

so much beer

whenever you want."

Glance at the empty can

held with her bony fingers,

miserable,

angry.

Toss the box of beer

into the garbage

but Mom just buys more.

"Don't go out

at night

every time."

Glance at the door,

wonder when she'll come back,

fed-up,

frustrated.

Doubt that she's

going to come back

at all tonight.

"Don't ask

for money

to pay hospital bills."

Glance at the scan

then at her pallid complexion,

feel resignation,

exhaustion.

Decide to give Mom

some money

after all.

"Don't make me

visit you

every week."

Glance at the small room,

all dull and bleached,

the bed in a corner

where she lies.

Slam the door

and walk out

that miserable hospital room.

"Don't leave me

all alone,

Mom."

Stare at her frail body

lying in that white deathbed,

feel shame,

regret.

Sit right next to her

as she breathes

her last breath.