Monday, February 4, 2013


Again, the first thing is the smell
The miserable scent of elderly
There's not enough ammonia
In the world to scrub away that
And always one old lady or another
—with their brittle hands like birds feet
and busts sitting on their waists—
they are pretty much interchangeable
One is always in the faded wing-chair
Near the door, smiling so sweetly
Eyes too cloudy to even feign interest
Every time you find yourself straight away
Promising God ridiculous things
As long as you don't have to end up here
You are super nice the rest of the visit
So he will grant your wish, as if to prove
Your promises; even though you can't
Wait to go, you hope he can't figure
That out but you know he probably can
Still - maybe if you behave, don't make
a fuss ...


  1. Oh the heart in this, Sharon. Tender and irritating and loving and removed. You have penned a piece I can truly feel and I am warmed by your ability to do so. You are very good at this poem stuff, you should do more of it! ;)

  2. Wowzers! You have capture the uneasy feeling (and denial) that we carry into these warehouses for the elderly and the relief with which we escape - this time! Well done.

  3. Whoa - really a very brutal poem, but very vivid. k.

  4. honest. i worked in a home for the elderly in college...well i volunteered there a couple times a week...its a hard place...many of them waiting on happy to see you as they have been in many ways forgotten...i too hope never to end up there...truth be told...smiles...

  5. Very powerful poem.