Cocktail Hour
My aunt complained at “cocktail hour,”
All they served was juice,
The definition of this drink,
Sans alcohol, too loose.
She’s in assisted living now,
At almost 98;
With many neighbors wheelchair-bound,
She simply can’t relate.
Her balance is an issue, though,
And even with her phone,
It’s clear that, though she disagrees,
She shouldn’t be alone.
I can’t imagine being told
That others can decide
That where you’ve lived no longer is
The place where you’ll reside.
It may be necessary; still,
Though safety’s a concern,
The loss of one’s autonomy
Is something I would spurn.
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