Blue hair and afghanis are now what I see
old men with Band Aids all surround me
dotting the landscape, the ones not in bed
try to recall what tattoos once said
Smells from the lunchroom, scents from the
hall
every day’s Sunday – no weekdays at all
checkers abandoned, there’s one lonely knight
the game is still playing with no players in
sight.
Television flickers, the volume’s insane
those not at breakfast – circle the drain
no one dare comment - the size of the crowd
bad luck will visit if you say it out loud.
ZC
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