the long end

it's a low b rick house.
in the bowels
of southern Maryland.
a broken
van on the grass,
a storm door
off it's hinges
leaning
on its rusted screws
against
the frame. a gutter
swings loose with moss.
a cracked window lets
you see in
to where the patients
sit,
shadowed in half light,
in various stages of
sleep,
chins on their chests.
unaware of where they are,
or who they are.
you ring the bell,
but there is no bell.
you knock,
someone looks out, then
lets you in.
they point with a smile
to the room
where your mother lies
alone
between the thin walls,
in silence,
living out her long long
end.