At Home

White, the room was barren
Black, the beds warned death
Thoughts of room and bed
Made grey rough strands of hair.

They hadn't always lived here
But now would never leave
Not from love--they hated home
But their hearts held no more room
For the smallest separation.

As they hoarded towels, forks, or sugar
Some nurses thought them odd
And begrudeged the older tenants
Of that pleasure of possession,
As well as the ability to look forward
To the next plastic-wrapped meal
Or cold and futile shower.

Dignity had left
Identity had left
Left the rooms quite barren.

Those unable to go crazy
Escaped by means of death -
Regardless of their health.