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A Fine Facility Like This | A Poem by Donal Mahoney

He’s not among the quick
and not among the dead.
He’s somewhere in between

he tells anyone who stops
his wheelchair in the halls
of a fine facility like this.

He couldn’t make it
on his own, his kids said,
so they brought him here.

His wife stuck post-it notes
all around the house
telling him what to do

and where to find things.
He might have made it.
He thought he didn’t need

a fine facility like this
with three hot meals and
sheets he can’t change.

At night he has popcorn
then watches nightmares
in a fine facility like this.

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