Against her will, the house, 
the food, the strangers mill, 
hover, dismiss her as if she 
were an artifact.

At times she wished
the wind would carry her out
of this place where the weather
never changes, 

only the faces, the voices, the accents
the impossibly annoying nicknames
the young ones call her, Baby Blue,
Grandma, Miss Jean, anything but

her own name. The young ones are
the worst she says: they cannot imagine 
being me in this chair day in day out, 
cannot picture growing old to a century.

The stories I could tell if they’d listen.
Instead, they poke their heads in my face
yell Good Morning when they don’t even
know if I think it’s a good or bad morning.

Time is on their side, for now. I raise my head,
I smile, I read their faces instead of lips, faces
tell so much more… I know these are the days
with no end – these are the numbered days

As they ask me to switch the dates on baby blocks
on the dining room table … as if the dates mattered.
if they only knew the thoughts that swim in 
and out of my brain, what I would wish for them

on some days, I can be mean in my heart
but it doesn’t last, I have to let go, I have to live
from day to day… A dark face peers into my clouded vision

What would we like to eat today?  I want to say
Who might the WE be? There is only one me.
Does this person plan on sharing and dining
on the same macerated mystery meals they serve me? 

At least they place the food on a real plate
instead those plastic numbers with compartments.

Sometimes I challenge them: I look around and say
How long have I been here? knowing the answer
is for 60 years, this is my house, but I give them
something to ponder. They wheel me out of the way

Answer with no imagination: It’s your house. 
And then I give them the kicker:
And how long will I be here? I love this one because
even the smart ones, can’t come up with an answer.