Care Home

They wait and wait and wait, The nearly dead, Mostly slumped in chairs asleep, Whilst those awake are deep Within the drowning process Of their fate in the grey sea of boredom that surrounds. They wonder why they're there at all, These castaways In a care home without care. Some stare at the TV mounted on the wall Where endless films You wouldn't pay a dime for Reel out their trivial acts, The sound too low to follow. She ticks and ticks and ticks, The nurse now at her desk, In the furthest corner of the room. It is her doom to fill in forms Which authority requires To give assurance that the quality of care Is adequate, Life reduced To page, on page, on page Of self-deceptive narrative. Some warders take advantage Of a shed outside To smoke, and joke and talk, And gain relief from the gnawing sense That they too are bound Within this island of despair. Badly paid, they work long hours, Yet some are still inspired To stir the inmates With a game or two, or quiz, Or gentle exercise. But to be fair The response is tepid As the tea they serve at intervals. Visitors are rare The sense of true abandonment Seeps into every bone And chills the soul.