They come to fade in a numbered ward,
Stowed away from family conscience as extra baggage.
Strong and vital in their hey-day,
Once toiling to give and find a comfortable life,
Now, sent here with some kind of damage.
Some are abled and can dress themselves,
Adroit with a stick,
Happy to read and play a game of chess,
And if the hands permit sewing and knitting,
Bored,sometimes wondering why they are grumpy.
Some come in wheel chairs,
Dependant  on therapists,
Unwilling, but still pass their time in front of the T.V,
The abled may join them for a deck of cards,
Building friendships as days pass by.
Others are the loners or with dementia,
Muttering to themselves,
Unaware what they are about.
Lastly are the terminally incompetent,
Trees once tall and flourishing,
Now, withered and gnarled.
All come with one thing in common,
To wait for their end.
12/6/2020