When modest semis lack the room for them,
here they come for Eventide,
swept and tidied away to die
and some insist on lingering
for the record books.
This clean, hygienic home
obscures the scrap heap that it is,
with remnants resting
to be fed and entertained
like Oxfam full of discards
and some half life.
Each day some come, some go
and we fit our passive parents
into this workable routine,
knowing our ancient ones
have haphazard memories and habits,
talking of the past casually,
and rarely well-articulated;
the resident historian might modify their idle boasts,
the manipulations of their lives.
So much time and care expended,
possibly a waste that animals ignore;
this is where the lonely live
outliving family and friends,
waiting,
sometimes preparing
for an uncertain day of dying.
They can only keep a little
of the junk that held their lives together,
must forget so many bits and pieces.
Jesus, had he lived, might have said
'New stitches to old lives
do not remove infirmity'
Zimmer frames, chairs and sticks
double the size of frail old folk
making the world
seem even fuller
than it might well be.
