Always ahead,
Face grim, double-diapered,
oxygen tank buzzing,
Somebody’s Grandpa, face stiffened,
one hand hanging limp,
“Please call me Emma,” eyes ever dimmed,
tightly grasps a Kleenex box.
chairs slowly roll to
Dietetically bland food,
An hour of coloring books,
Bingo’s prize – a small bag
of unsalted potato chips.
The early few:
A raspy-breathing crone pleads
“Just one more Marlboro?”
“It’s not good for you,”
the assistant replies – as if to a child,
her nicotine-stained hand
out of sight.
Withered,
having long forgotten her own secrets,
happily mumbling gibberish songs,
loudly applauding.
A cadaverous cackler sings Zippity-Do Dah, Zippity Ay,
My, My, My What A Wonderful Day,
the walker moving
roundroundround,
‘til someone seats him.
The bed-bound,
devastating illnesses triumphant
lie in darkened rooms,
TV their only company.
Time and dates irrelevant:
seconds, minutes, hours,
days, weeks, months,
birthdays, holidays,
have no meaning.
Deep in all minds
they await the inevitable:
the silence of mortality
