Rust

blood and muscle and bone. they wait for the white-clad ghost who knows my name but never uses it. they wait for the news that is always bad. slumped on the bench covered with a thin paper sheet. silence. but for quick, distant voices mumbling down the hall outside my door. they wait for the Care i must give them. but it was always this way. though slowly at first. a toy to be put away. “so he can learn to take Care of things”, i’m sure my parents must have said. then trinkets to arrange and dust. and books to store and later a car to oil. and then a house and leaks to patch. and televisions and carpet and still more Care. and a job to pay for it all. and Care of people and relationships i could not understand. and now later, much later, Care of blood and muscle and bone. and the mind too, i suppose. the machinery of life. until eventually to claw to the cafeteria and to the toilet and to the bed. broken -- a junkyard of Care and unstoppable Rust. the quick voices now gain clarity outside my door. the ghost appears with bad news and does not say my name.