Nursing Home

Here in this room, death is
the sound of breath.
Lined up as we are in our wheelchairs,
we sit alone.

We have reached an unnatural peace
with our brother, Dust,
his torrid affair
with mops and the way he saves
little bits
of our hair and skin.

Perhaps he keeps bits in a box,
a basement shop where all that's bent or broken
is repaired,
so may be used again.

We know this may be unsettling,
a strange conceit,
hard even to consider.
But we are not daft,
if wishing to be treated and remembered
as once we were.

We do not care so much about where,
so long as we're not warehoused
to rot like apples in a bin.

See! We even can spell correctly.
Thank God! Thank God!