Alone in your
bed
Roger drills a hole
deep into the metre-thick
attic wall – a big chunk of the
house falls out. Drive to buy
bag of cement to rebuild it. Nothing
is quick. A neighbour drops in,
make fresh coffee, phone rings,
chat for twenty minutes, lunch late
again. Fine, breakfast finished
at ten. Our temporary kitchen is
years old, everybody loves it
“don’t change it,” they cry.
Why would I, the money’s run dry;
romanticism runs high in our little
circle.
A roar bellows out, someone bangs
their head on the low stairwell, whacks
their forehead on a beam.
Old folk were short then, didn’t die
in expensive homes staffed by
hard-faced strangers with unfriendly
eyes, their every movement lies.
Hearts are broken, bones too as frail
old folk reach for water, slip on
polished
floors, face death as welcome relief
from cruel façade parading torture,
masquerading efficient care.
Beware, die at home
alone in your bed in the night.
Joselyn Duffy Morton©
