by James McKee
The home seemed pleasant from the street;
Two weeks of rest and therapy,
No more, should put you on your feet.
It didn't sound too bad to me.
Yours was a quiet floor, except
For a lounge where house rules allowed
One shared TV, which the staff kept
Always turned on and always loud.
To reach your bedside, I passed through
Fifty residents slumped in rows,
Unknown to me, although I knew
You would never be one of those.