Send her to the warehouse.
She's old, immobile, a bother, non-productive.
Put her on the shelf in a cell
And let her time run out.

Here, though, is a way station -
A final home in this life.
Not a cell, but an apartment, a home -
A place of peace and reflection.
Here she can hold court -
Heal and be healed
And be ready when the train arrives.

©2011, John A. Mills