In the nursing home, where time stands still
There are more women than men, and good doctors are few
The old men do little but sleep, their days passing by
Staff doctors visit only once a month, their care fleeting
Outside, a few old men gather for a smoke
Allowed this small pleasure in their twilight years
Their conversations filled with low grunts and grumbles
As they cling to what little joy remains within their grasp
One old man, his body ravaged by bone cancer
Jokes with high good humor about his expired guarantees
A former salesman who loved women, his memories fading
But his love for life and laughter still shines through
The women, once vibrant and lively, now reduced to little girls
Clutch rag-dolls to their chests, seeking comfort and solace
Their frailty and vulnerability tugging at the heartstrings
A reminder of the love that has always been within them
I wave to them and they wave back, a fleeting moment of connection
But it\'s hard to tell how much they really know, their minds slipping away
The care-givers, kind and efficient, try to infuse them with zest for life
But the old know all that already, or knew and have forgotten
I wonder if the young can reverse their situations with the old
Imagine themselves in the same frail state, looking up at fresh faces
I am too young to join them, too old to feel the buoyancy of the youth
An awkward age in the context of the nursing home, a metaphor for the last days
After visiting my partly present mother, I sit with the old men and have a smoke
Hoping for clear days, for moments of clarity and connection
In the twilight of life, we all seek comfort and companionship
As we navigate the complexities of aging and the bittersweet beauty of existence. (\"Nursing Home\") by Courtney Weaver Jr.