Home is Hospice

I feed two old women every day
With meat and sauces
So called paté
From bought in bulk cans

Crush their pills with
A butterknife
On the kitchen table
While they’re not looking

Senile
They gum on the meat
In bowls they never noticed
Were seldom washed

Their senses can barely
Handle the taste
On the rim of the dish
Shying from forks and digging in

When the bowls are empty
They beg with eyes and screams
From downstairs in the basement
Where they’re somehow happier

They look at me
When they’re not eating
Like they’re disappointed
In themselves somehow

When they move, I feel it
Their bones grinding
No powderized pill sufficing
To stem the pain of arthritis

Or gnarled nails
Missing teeth
And legs that shuffle
So meekly away from my path

So that I may set down their bowls
On their own personal tables
And let the old women feed
Once a day to be cruelly sustained