The Rest Home Door Poem by cheryl davis miller

Care giving sometimes seems
to really get the best of me.
If you ‘care’ at all it drains you
with the sights you daily see.

Every face becomes familiar
as you go from hall to hall.
Every day you see the life
draining from them one and all.

I watch a Lady clutch a baby doll
and hold it to her breast.
It seems that in this ' rest home',
not many are at rest.

Another stands there daily
and waits beside the door.
Searching for the reason why
her family comes no more.

Then there’s quiet Johnny
once a strong hard working man.
Now broken down and feeble
he can hardly stand.

You can look in all directions
and you’ll find depressing sights.
Seems with age we loose our usefulness
along with family, home and rights.

You say it’s too depressing.
I don’t want to hear anymore.
Try working there or existing there;
behind the ' Rest Home' door.

[c.d.m.3/09 ]