Cocktail Hour

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.