cheryl davis miller

(2/26/57 / America)

The Twilight Zone


How did I get here,
tell me what, was my crime?

Was it growing older,
with the passing, of time?

If I can’t swallow my medication,
it’s recorded ‘Patient Refused’,

Or call someone, by the wrong name,
then it’s ‘Patient’s Confused’,

If I don’t feel, like doing therapy,
the nurse has the Doctor’s ear,

he will call-in, what she requests,
then I can’t think very clear.

When I get tired of probes and needles,
and I raise up my hand,

I’m declared, to be combative,
and they call for, Ata-van.

Or should I, become restless,
cause medications, don’t agree,

they decide it is ‘Alzheimer’s’,
and then slap a patch on me.

If it appears, that all I do of late,
is lie in bed, and moan,

it’s because, my ‘Twilight Years’,
have now become, ’The Twilight Zone’.

Who will be my voice,
for it seems I can’t, articulate,

look on me, and intervene, my friend,
before you share my fate.

Submitted: Thursday, November 21, 2013
Edited: Friday, November 22, 2013
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Poet's Notes about The Poem

For a friend in this position once.

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