Rehabilitation Poem by Jenny Kalahar

Old men sit together, eating lunch
their single choice of ham
sweet potato, peas, pudding
there in the care home:
the single choice they have been given
after crumpling to the floor

To walk again, they must first sit
broken-boned in wheelchairs
brown terrycloth bibs over button-down shirts
watching friendly waitresses dance on unbroken limbs
with coffee pots, tea pitchers, smiles

To leave this expensive, bronze-wallpapered prison
they must first stretch and tug
balance and endure, twice per day
embarrassed in their old man bodies
flexing muscles gone soft
without permission from their souls

To walk through the automatic doors one last time
they must suffer humiliations hour by hour
must call for help to do too many things
they'd never called for help to do before
before that fall, that accident, that disease

Before leaving in cars driven not by themselves
they must promise sons, daughters, wives
that they will never drive again
never walk without cane or walker
never bathe alone
never bend to put their shoes on by hand
never carry too much at once
never walk on gravel or up or down their own staircases
never be the men they were before

To go home again becomes less and less of a joyful goal
with each and every such promise spoken
or nodded at, very slightly
until their heads nod on their own
and forget to rise again