My aunt complained
at “cocktail hour,”
All they
served was juice,
The definition
of this drink,
Sans alcohol,
too loose.
She’s in
assisted living now,
At almost 98;
With many
neighbors wheelchair-bound,
She simply
can’t relate.
Her balance
is an issue, though,
And even
with her phone,
It’s clear
that, though she disagrees,
She shouldn’t
be alone.
I can’t
imagine being told
That others
can decide
That where
you’ve lived no longer is
The place
where you’ll reside.
It may be
necessary; still,
Though safety’s
a concern,
The loss of
one’s autonomy
Is something I would spurn.