end of the road

there's a new Cadillac
parked in front of the dilapidated
house at the end
of road. shutters swing free,
the storm door
is off its rusted hinges.
I ring the broken bell taped
to the door,
then knock. I go in.
the senior home
woman tells me that they
are almost out of
ensure and diapers,
tiny jars of baby food.
straws and plastic spoons.
every visit they say the same thing.
I hand her forty dollars
in cash then ask
what about the four thousand
dollars
you get each month
for her being here.
where does that go?
she doesn't eat food so you
don't have to cook for her.
she doesn't
walk around,
she doesn't use electricity
or water, or
take up much space
other than this single
bed in the smallest room
in the house with no tv,
or radio.
oh, that, the woman says.
I don't know, you have to talk
to the owner about that,
but we need Ensure.
come in i'll wake her up
and let her know you're here.
Marie she yells,
flicking the ceiling light
on and off, Marie,
your son is here.