An ironing board set up in a bedroom
with old slacks draped across it,
a sliding glass door to nowhere,
this is what life has come to
inside the sheltered rooms of a refuge,
more like a shrinking womb.
Lost memories piled high in a basket
like last week’s laundry,
while confusion roams the lonely hallways
of blinking fluorescent lights,
being afraid of what is ahead.
These are the rewards for old age.
Time spent inside one’s own mind,
living out past adventures,
while rocking away in a rickety chair,
on the front porch of your last days.
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