care

care

the liveried care worker smokes on the threshold,

furiously spitting her own drama, into the face

of an old woman who peeps fearful from blankets,

like an acorn gone bad; the stairs to nowhere now,

sardonic behind her.

the bowel brown carpet, meets lurid fuchsia walls

that she had no say over: a Sunday of rain, boiled beef and

warm lager, a well-meaning family intent on ignoring each frail

sparrow nod of protest; you were enfeebled in defeat.

after her ‘turn for the worse’ the family visit weekly,

bringing you chocolates, that they eat before leaving,

circling like vultures with wallpaper swatch wings,

talons spooling tape measures behind the back of your wheelchair.

they are waiting for you to die.

you are waiting for you to die.

the reasons are very different; yet connected by blood.