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My unit consists of two rooms and a bath.
From the outside it looks like the others.
The folks I belong with, they say, are “assisted”;
in that sense, we’re sisters and brothers.
Everyone else has a relative, though,
or someone on whom they’re relying.
And I’m all alone! Yes, I do want to live,
but it’s time I made plans about dying.
This landmark facility, sheltered by trees,
has long, twisting, carpeted halls.
We’re urged to eat meals in the dining rooms, but
we’re all of us fearful of falls.
Mobility’s daunting. And I admire those
who propel their own wheelchairs the most.
Some folks push rollators; I use a walker;
and some a swift scooter can boast.
A World War Two veteran neighbor of mine
(we honor our vets for their bravery),
a Johnny Reb's grandson, is wheeling a lady
whose grandparents lived under slavery.
Our residents vary by decades in age;
there are several faiths and ethnicities.
We have to abide by the schedules and rules,
and they put up with our eccentricities.
This roof houses hundreds: the tenants, the staff,
aides for rooms and to dose medication.
We’ve nurses, housekeepers, and maintenance crews.
Of course, there’s the administration.
We’ve those who prepare and serve food every day,
three full meals, and they vary the menu.
It’s an ideal gathering place for events,
a warm and hospitable venue.
Activities ranging from walking to bingo,
from poker to aqua aerobics abound.
Though this isn’t a zoo, there are animals, too.
I cuddle the furry pets bouncing around.
They have exercise here (I should really appear),
social hour, tai chi, reminiscing.
They have parties for residents’ birthdays each month
with ice cream and cake (I’ve been missing).
“How are YOU?” is the query so frequently asked.
“I’m just FINE. And YOU?” “FINE,” the reply.
Both are said with a smile. Both are met with a nod
of approval. (I wish I could cry.
I hope they won’t guess that I’m full of distress,
fear, and grief for my loved ones now gone.
I have to keep walking, and hug while we’re talking,
act cheerful and not seem withdrawn.)
My two rooms and bath are a haven in this
rambling place; they bring solace to me.
Other people, I find, are both helpful and kind.
We're, in more ways than one, "family."
Communities flourish in cities, on farms,
in each homeless shelter as well.
And mine's this diversified, charming abode,
where friends, newly dear, work and dwell.
From the outside it looks like the others.
The folks I belong with, they say, are “assisted”;
in that sense, we’re sisters and brothers.
Everyone else has a relative, though,
or someone on whom they’re relying.
And I’m all alone! Yes, I do want to live,
but it’s time I made plans about dying.
This landmark facility, sheltered by trees,
has long, twisting, carpeted halls.
We’re urged to eat meals in the dining rooms, but
we’re all of us fearful of falls.
Mobility’s daunting. And I admire those
who propel their own wheelchairs the most.
Some folks push rollators; I use a walker;
and some a swift scooter can boast.
A World War Two veteran neighbor of mine
(we honor our vets for their bravery),
a Johnny Reb's grandson, is wheeling a lady
whose grandparents lived under slavery.
Our residents vary by decades in age;
there are several faiths and ethnicities.
We have to abide by the schedules and rules,
and they put up with our eccentricities.
This roof houses hundreds: the tenants, the staff,
aides for rooms and to dose medication.
We’ve nurses, housekeepers, and maintenance crews.
Of course, there’s the administration.
We’ve those who prepare and serve food every day,
three full meals, and they vary the menu.
It’s an ideal gathering place for events,
a warm and hospitable venue.
Activities ranging from walking to bingo,
from poker to aqua aerobics abound.
Though this isn’t a zoo, there are animals, too.
I cuddle the furry pets bouncing around.
They have exercise here (I should really appear),
social hour, tai chi, reminiscing.
They have parties for residents’ birthdays each month
with ice cream and cake (I’ve been missing).
“How are YOU?” is the query so frequently asked.
“I’m just FINE. And YOU?” “FINE,” the reply.
Both are said with a smile. Both are met with a nod
of approval. (I wish I could cry.
I hope they won’t guess that I’m full of distress,
fear, and grief for my loved ones now gone.
I have to keep walking, and hug while we’re talking,
act cheerful and not seem withdrawn.)
My two rooms and bath are a haven in this
rambling place; they bring solace to me.
Other people, I find, are both helpful and kind.
We're, in more ways than one, "family."
Communities flourish in cities, on farms,
in each homeless shelter as well.
And mine's this diversified, charming abode,
where friends, newly dear, work and dwell.
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