At Sunrise, then, the living looks like this:
An atrium; a fireplace; some rugs
From somewhere in the vaguely Middle East.
A “concierge” who smiles and doesn’t miss
A thing knits underneath rococo (faux)
Involved with putto, nymph, and ribald feast.
A hundred breasts mount up. Below, the dugs
Of elders droop, as wheelchair, walker, cane
Contrive to help their women come and go.
One senses dulling drugs. One thinks of pain.

She’s wisps and thin blue skin and breath like cheese,
Whispering straight past my ear to no one there
Out on a porch all rockered up in chintz:
“That’s where you go when you’re not here, with these.
It’s not in here. No, it’s some other place,
And we go there.” I try hard not to wince.
It’s tasteful, but decay hangs in the air
Each sunrise left, and every blessed dawn.
All clear, of course, but mentioned just in case
Some day I’ll have no way to. Then, I’m gone.