they fed them
starch
and gelatinous meats,
sugary concoctions.
fried chicken
and potatoes,
Salisbury steaks
with gravy. large
loaves of white bread.
noodles.
jello.
my mother gained
twenty pounds
in one week
after moving in to
the senior home,
called A Home for Mom
in a sketchy
neighborhood in southern
Maryland.
at the clang of a bell,
everyone in the tv
room rose as one
and waddled to the dining
room table
where three meals
a day were served.
they were not unlike
the living dead
rising from their deep
musty sofas.
most were stroke victims,
had Alzheimer's,
or some stage of
dementia.
they were all diapered up
and unable to
remember if they ate
already, or were
even hungry.
it went down hill from
there.
when you came to visit,
your own mother didn't know
if it was Christmas,
or the Fourth of July,
rarely did she remember your name.
sometimes the local church
choir would come by
and sing for them,
distressing everyone
by blocking the tv screen as
another episode of Barney
Miller or the Jeffersons
came on with the volume
turned up.
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