Last week I sent a get well card
to my father in the nursing home.
On Saturday the card returned to me
stamped DECEASED.
I understand, now, this was a clerical error;
they simply had his named misspelled,
reversed the “i” and “r”
in the business office file.
But now I also understand
no one ever just leaves the nursing home:
They don’t have rubber stamps
for MOVED AWAY or NOT AT THIS ADDRESS.
And all the residents know–
those unfortunately in their senses–
know there is only one way out,
know they are waiting, separated
by memories and wheelchairs,
isolated in their shame,
lined up, eyes straight forward
looking back to faded Kodak scenes,
lined up, waiting
until they too can be certified
and stamped DECEASED.
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