It’s a trick, isn’t it,
Making us live past
Our allotment so they
Can redeem not just our day?
And we must conform
To get their medications,
Probes, endless tests
And their “we don’t know
But perhaps and this just
Might be” and we
Without their training
Mutely sit and listen
With half our ears
Hoping to be released
And perhaps get some
Dinner at a restaurant
On our long way home.
I opened her door
And helped her out. She
Wisely couldn’t remember
Where we’d been.
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