the home

He sits in the chair with wheels that go no where.
Wheels with the ever-constant brakes
Head bent, one would think he sleeps.
But he watches
The snow fall beyond the steamed window
Beyond this time.
Home. The home.
Not his home.
The ever-locked doors.
The many Christmases gone by
The disgrace to be old.
Snow. The snow. Not this snow.
Used to be clean, white.
He used to work, walk in snow at his home.

Head bent
One would think he sleeps.
He sleeps.
The snow is gone.
The cold is gone.
Don’t try to wake him.
He is home.

.
.
.

…1976..

2 comments

  1. Terribly touching. I don’t dread it as much for my generation as I am haunted by so many in the nursing homes I visit where my parents’ generation makes their home. I’ve never seen it put into words better and probably won’t.

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