Old Age Home, A Poem by Burt Kimmelman

Old Age Home by Burt Kimmelman The ride from Manhattan — slipping her into the passenger seat, swinging in her legs, shutting the door — to the suburbs of New Jersey, its trees and freshly-painted houses, was as neat as her empty apartment. We placed some photos on her table, hung up a few paintings on the walls, arranged some of her sculptures here and there, plugged in lamps and the television set. We made our way along the hallway to a room full of sun, where people were gathered to talk a little, though she had nothing to say. There was a stereo playing music, and once in a while someone sang the lyrics, which had returned from some dim region — a man seated in an easy chair had wanted, years ago, "a girl just like the girl who married dear old Dad." We went to dinner. Someone poured her a glass of juice. She ate, spilling food, with a sudden hunger. Afterward we sat on some couches. Someone asked her to dance. The music played. She danced with slight, tentative steps, a tulip too heavy for its stem. When we had to go we kissed goodnight, and left her to lie down in her soft bed, her head on her pillow, to slip into sleep. "Old Age Home" by Burt Kimmelman, from Gradually the World: New and Selected Poems. © Blaze Vox Books, 2013. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)