May I avoid the seventh floor,
With plastic flowers and plants galore.
Triple glazed, no chance of sound,
The air is canned and pushed around.
To never hear the sound of birds.
The noise from streets, the shouted word.
To wait each day for every meal,
The hours between, too numb to feel.
To hear the others talk aloud,
Once so happy, once so proud.
To think each day is Christmas time.
Where is that card with pretty rhyme?
To see those nurses all in white,
Who move so silent, what a fright.
To wait for visits all day long,
And then remember they’ve all gone.
To feel your sight too weak to see,
What will you do without TV?
To never know the year or date,
Just to sit and wait, wait, wait.
I hope that floor is not my fate.
That when I’m old, it’s not too late.
To make a choice, however small,
Convince them I’m not ill at all.