Helping the aged (Poetry)

They have forgotten how to love —
if they have ever known —
they hate the young for being young
themselves for being old —
there is no pleasing them.
They sit around — grind crumbling teeth
and moan
about the world and how it was
back then — too long ago.

Hope has withered with the skin —
dried up
the crackle in aged voices an old fire
that cannot burn for long —
they spit and cough whole chapters of regrets
impatient of each day and what it never brings —
insist they have no fear of death’s long night
that has no morning after —
tired of all those half-remembered things
that once gave life its joy...

And yet they cling — sink deep into their well-worn
chairs and doze
reluctant to give way
determined to see off the creeping shadows and
all the while they can
play beck and call with those
who care for them.