Poem: Rest Home?
Updated: Oct 24, 2019
Icy air creeping out of
vents, pumping the smell of aging flesh.
Nurse, attention caught
by accident, a whisper perhaps.
He materialized down the distant hall,
where the white porcelain walls meet.
His body like a tissue in his wheel chair.
So vulnerable, small, isolated
- nearly transparent.
Was he swaying with that untouchable breeze?
Her bleach-clean uniform stirred,
squeaky white Rockports marching
along the starchy hall
His brown paisley bed gown was faded, like his skin,
His silver hair looked like a fire of ice.
Or a bad meringue
She stretched her cool hand out and touched
his icy shoulder bone.
Softly, his tiny voice spoke, "help me... please."
Bending down, her calf
exposed in the chilly room.
Sternly, "What is it hun!"
Her lips straining a grin, torso raising
turning the chair to the wall
Sole screeching on linoleum.
The tween of the television.
The speakers active, jumbled, rambling
Monitor flashing to life
White laces gliding back down the hall.