A Home For the Unjudgable
One disgruntled nursing assistant
calls it: the s..t house.
I overhear the laughter of angels.
The inmates know it as ‘Fair Havens’
some have a sense of humor
they name the place the ‘Twilight Zone’
or the ‘Dead End.’
It’s no worse or better
than any last stop for the infirm of age,
but meals and flushing toilets here
seem synonymous
coming as they do so often one after the other.
I visit him, he’s no relation, my wife knew him,
just a wrinkled-up guy who talks about his boyhood
as if it were yesterday
and recalls many a disreputable dirty story.
I take notes, and he asks what am I writing down?
I tell him I’m a recorder of lost worlds.
He smiles and nods, continues to speak
about matters of great insignificance
yet his ramblings are still a living truth.
He reminds me of an edgy comic
who’s inappropriate and insulting jokes
will turn the air as blue
as the skin of a still grinning corpse.
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