Old Age

For what great atrocity, is this the punishment?

To lie lonely and confused, even incontinent.

To exit this world, the way you came in -

wearing a nappy, can’t clean your own skin.

Like some crazy, mad film, where the poor hero,

ends up where he started, back at ground zero.

Dazed and confused, not knowing sod all,

thank goodness for Pavel - that’s Polish for Paul.

The care home staff, are unbelievably good,

doing a tough job, that I never could.

Love and kindness, pour out from all,

I find it humbling, as they answer my call.

Well into her nineties, mum whispers to me;

“How’s Mummy and Daddy – they don’t visit me?”

Dead for forty years mum, if the truth be told,

but you can’t say that, not to the old.