I am growing old
beneath this ceiling.
Mind you, I've always been
growing old,
but I regret growing old
here, in this
ridiculous excuse
of a room.

There are ants, you know.
I don't think they
can wait much longer.
But tell them it's okay,
I'll be in their home
soon enough.

And what is this?
Do you
really expect me to eat --
this?
Would you eat it? Dried lettuce,
old tomatoes, gray pieces of
carrots hiding beneath a sad attempt
at dressing.
Pathetic, that's what they give me here.
Pathetic.

But I bide my time.
Have you seen my poetry
in the hallways?
They've hung some, you know.
It's as if this were
a preschool,
and the nurses were
our teachers,
and the things we do to
keep our minds "busy"
(I prefer "preoccupied")
were things to be proud of.
It's like I'm back where
I started --
just a bit less
naïve.

That man, next door,
do you remember him?
He spoke to you the last time
you visited.
They took him to the back
a few days ago.
Please, son, you have to promise me,
you won't let them
take me there.
No one ever returns.

I think that's where they take us to
die.

*Then she turned to me,
that familiar, cynical smile
I've known all my life stretched
across her face, and she asked,
"What's the difference between
a nursing home and
an asylum?"