it's the gleam
of silver, of steel
and the bright floors
that you notice first.
as the grey ones
the shine almost gone,
move slowly from
room to hall, towards
food or sleep, or
bingo. television
becomes the fire
they sit around to
tell the fading
tales of when they
too were young. and
those that care for
them are in pastel
clothes, like easter
bunnies, soft and warm,
but only on the job,
there is nothing there.