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  • Writer's pictureTroy Kinney

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,

and wrinkled.

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!"

"i'm lonely."

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.

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