In An Old Folks Home

By June 2, 2018Blog

My son wrote this poem at age 16, reminding of a time I toured a veteran retirement home. I met a 93 year old retired sergeant from the Army. While talking to him I asked what he would like to cheer him up. He responded to me saying “he’d like to go to lunch with a pretty lady.”

Thinking it was possible, I arranged this to be done weekly with his VA Benefits, but was unable to follow through because of his caretaker citing his health conditions.

 

  

 

It happened when summer turned into fall, time had come to threaten all.

When it came, it was hard to see, if I would reach seventy-three.

But alas, there was yet some time, to live the future in ancient rhyme.

My daughter went to Mrs. Perive, said to return at half past five.

At half past five, she did arrive, to take me for my last drive.

As she drove ahead did loom, an edifice with forty room.

Locked and sealed, unable to roam, I was left…..

In an old folds home.

 

The building stood depressingly bleak, it was a prison; so to speak.

Every morning I paced the floor, as the room whispered… Nevermore.

It had become a habit that I spoke to myself, while a mirror echoed back on the shelf.

The room carried a noisome stink, which rose from the plumbing of a rust-covered sink.

Time passed and I became old and rotten, left to face that I had been forgotten.

The window portrays scenes of the young and the bliss, for all I do now…. is the reminisce.

Sitting on my bed, watching the phone, left to stay….

In an old folks home.

 

Another day, another night, in this placed sealed up tight.

I just can’t stand the waiting, it is myself that I am hating.

My daughter has not once come to call, only to leave me in this filthy stall.

Awaiting a rapping at my door, I await a visitor.

Succumbed to my room I moan, Abondoned….

In an old folks home.

 

Crazy with insanity, loosing all my vanity.

I look at my reflection, it has no recollection.

My eyes have grown as large as pools, and from my mouth saliva drools.

My face has withered and grown old, forgotten here, my life does fold.

I am sad and lonely as I lay, here in bed by night and day.

I shut my eyes and start to daze, knowing my life is near a close.

Like a pauper or a bumb, I still wait, but on one comes.

Outside the window it began to rain and in my heart… spasms of pain.

Looking, but unable to gee, I thought of people just like me.

In my heart, more pain did seethe, it was then I ceased to breath.

In my bed… all alone, there I died…..

In an old folks home.

 

by Mark Holtzclaw 1973

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