Tags
bashfulbadgersblog, bereavement, death of my father, funeral home, hospice, lockdown, NaPoWriMo, poem, poem in a white ribbed vest
the ninety-year-old endures
the savage onslaught
of one-size-fits-all care,
arriving all at once
and just too late
to make a difference.
he is kicking at the traces still,
against a hurricane of bleached white cold
and the warriors of well meaning
who descend on him in droves.
a blizzard of cleanliness
sweeps him from his home
into the house of death,
where hard-boiled hospice nurses
prey on him like harpies
impatient for the end,
and importune his daughter
for the name of a funeral home.
poem in a white ribbed vest 