They sit hunched up, in neat rows in front of the old
television,
Without hearing, not listening & many without even
any vision,
Wreathed in bony old wrinkles, bedroom slippers &
old grey wool,
With Zimmer frames, sticks & wheelchairs, they
either push or pull.
“My son´s a banker”, says an old lady with glowing
unconcealed pride,
Another one says, “My granddaughter is going to be a
beautiful bride”,
“My son is rich & he says that he is soon coming
here to take me out”,
They all show off, they all compare & share their
families & they all tout.
Between meds & meals of mush & salt less,
fatless pap, they sit & wait,
Awaiting visiting times, the weekends, birthdays, Yule
& any special date,
Awaiting the letter, the card, the invitation, the
“Hello Dad, Hello Mum”,
But they sit & wait, in neat rows in front of the
television & nothing comes.
Errant daughters, careless grandchildren, the
forgetting, forgetful sons,
Busy families, with businesses, social lives &
homes of their own to run,
Forgetting their old parents, old folk now hidden from
view, locked away,
Those old ones, those forgotten ones, now they are
there to wait, to stay.
They were once the carers of those who now do not care
& do not come,
They were once the ones, to whom their loved ones would
come & run,
They were once the ones, who cared & loved a lot without
any exception,
And now they are the ones who are left alone & waiting
in sad rejection.
But whatever goes by, they still sit & wait, expectantly
watching the door,
Listening for those familiar warm footsteps crossing the
cold echoing floor,
Convincing themselves & the others around them, that
they´re not really alone,
“My son, my daughter, my grandchildren; are coming soon
to take me back home”.
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