Trapped In The Hole Of A Doughnut

 

chair higher than it ought be
long, sand coloured counter pressed against the wall of glass
exposed bites, on the half, eaten old fashion doughnut
sitting next to the ceramic coffee cup

why am I here?
at this crowded doughnut shop in the city
cars zipping past on drive-thru exits
summers furniture sits on the outside patio
bolted to the pavers
snow caused by the cold
words of love once written
on wet snow
now frozen for who knows how long
christmas music calling angels
plays on the speaker
it’s not even december

how many are here
either before or after
visiting a loved one
in that home
yes that home
across the parking lot
across the double lane road
that three story red brick complex
called a ‘home’
funny and odd name for something its not
It would make more sense
to house our loved ones
next to the airports or train stations
giving them the illusion of travel
airports for the old and used
long halls lined with beds with curtains of privacy
side table with lamp and toiletries
once chair placed at an angle
marker boards with names scribbled
days attendants, nurse and doctor on call

when the bell rings all are woken
and one by one they walk or are pushed in wheelchairs
then lined up once more
with a great view of the wall of glass
here they can see hope and dream
watching the planes take off and the workers buzzing about like ants

or they could also be at a train station
listening to the whistle blow and the tracks vibrating the floors
they could imagine themselves sitting in one of those seats
let’s not forget the harbours and cruise ships
with the seagulls flying past the windows
and the smell of sea salt in the air
fish and chips would be on the menu there

why am I sitting here
looking across the way
at the three-story building
that was in part my home for three years
there are days when I miss the smiles
the conversations that inspired me to dream up a life
when speaking to a dementia resident
I became part of their lives and their past
why would I not
the days of walking through the doors of key codes
of seeing his face light up and hearing him call
I would give my life to have that back if only for one day
to be in his arms and feel him patting my head
she is so sad, is what he wrote when he still could
line drawing of my face on a canvas of golden sun

I am sitting here because I miss him

Strange Faces
Painting by Sculptor Bruce Garner 2009

The place took hold of me and I felt compelled to write.
No editing, or thought just pure stream of consciousness.