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Rearrange Me ‘Til I’m Sane

I’m sat in this chair
in a place, they call home.
I don’t recognize it but
it’s where I live.

There are other people here
just like me,
old and frail,
lost in this strange world
we call home.

I’m sat in this chair
looking out of the window
staring at my reflection
not recognising the person
looking back at me.

A stranger.

He’s old, so old.

Wispy hair,
a wrinkled face,
gnarled hands.

His whole body
wrapped tightly in that chair.

A warm blanket
holding him  fast
less he escapes.

I try to speak
to ask the reflection who he is,
but only spittle and strange noises
fall from my mouth.

I watch him dribbling like a baby.

Young ladies in blue uniforms
start to rearrange me,
wipe my chin,
straighten my cushion,
tuck the blanket around me even more tightly.

They smile at me,
their words sound kind but meaningless.

I want to answer them,
but the words won’t come.

They think I’m mad,
an old mind
too tired to work any more.

I so want to talk to them
about my life,
my dreams,
the love and the heartache I have seen.

Instead, I simply dribble and gurgle.

They respond by smiling and
rearranging me again
in my small world,
another shift of the cushion,
more tucking in.

If only these Angels in blue
could get inside my head
rearrange my mind,
and make me sane again.

Mike Jackson

Categories: Micro Fiction Poetry


A writer of short stories.

I look forward to reading your comments

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