Harris A

BB, who creates beautiful prize-winning images of spring blooms and fog rising from the lake at dawn, finds my blogs dark. "Only some," I protest feebly. Yet life isn't always cherry blossoms and green meadows. Many years ago, while I was still working at the residential school,the direct care staff went on strike. Someone had to man the buidings for residents who never went on strike and left only at death. I worked in a unit I call Harris A for several hours each day along with many other non-union staff. Harris A, for elderly residents, would, in earlier years, be considered a "back ward." Surely there were positives to be found there but the poem I wrote at that time was dark, indeed.

Like rocks of shale they endure
Holding on to form without function,
Fragile and crumbly,
Existing alone, together
The aged residents of Harris A
Cared for by worn out workers paid to care.
Extending worn outlives another day,
Another year.

Ronnie, frenetic in his compuslive rituals
Moving large rocks here one day and back the next,
The trash emptier,
His routine engraved indelibly on sulci never fully formed.
Interrupt him not.

Brenda, obese, Queen of the group.
She knows how things run,
Where breakfast cereals are kept
And who gets tea with Sweet and Low,
And if Dorethea is working first or second shift.

Crotchedy Penn hobbling around
Demands her boots on rainy days or fair,
Flirtatious with the men she calls "Sweetheart."
Not always ancient, she
Remembers how it used to be
When Matron's word was law.

They all remember except Harry,
Whose plaque-encrusted cortex
Forgets what day it is.
Refusing to go to workshop, he pinches my hand pleading
"What should I do? What should I do?"

Allen, nearly blind, needs me to help him dress.
Left by his father years ago,
He can't let go his anger
And berates us all
For any small offense, real or imagined,
Fiery resentment in his darkened world,
And yet, humming and rocking to Mozart,
I think I saw him smile.

Deaf Lizzy, who has hair growing on her chin,
A nose that needs wiping,
Asks for cereal, then won't eat
Till staff yell, reads in her room at night
I think she mocks us silently.

Conrad talks in a slow, sing-song voice.
Who needs help with suspenders
And wants me to burn his toast
Teeters with his walker
But goes to workshop willingly.
It takes an hour.

Jack beckons me with a finger
To tuck in his shirt
Or answer some foolish whispered question.
He curses like a sailor when he can't do his shoes
Provoking Allen,
He sounds like Elmer Fudd.

And Michael, once wild and uncontrolled,
Now enfeebled,
Sits cross-legged on the floor,
Jabber-playing with a ball.
In the back room lays Walter,
Sucking life froma syringe.
Fearfil, I keep my distance,
Until one night he died.