Bright white river of concrete lines the front of the building called, “Freedom Pointe”

Upright visitors move in and out of revolving doors, carrying coats and umbrellas and flowers and the “somethings” they picked up for mom

Inside a hive of tapestry and old cherry wood banisters all dressed up with streamers

It is happy-hour day, every fourth friday at four, and some hired clown is singing from a songbook

And bangled knobby wrists sway, and twist to swinging horn sections that played seventy five years ago, in a hall long since fallen to disrepair

She is there

He is there

They might be there,

Swaying to songs from an unnamed decade

Sentenced out of love, to live out their days and make the best of them (or to not)  behind wooden doors in rooms with oxygen tubes intermingled with the kitschy treasured you grew up with

She is there

He was there

You are there

I’ll stay face down on my bed until the sobbing blows over

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