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Bingo at the Old Folk's Home
Here in repose, a prisoner within my own body,
Encompassed in an immaculate, achromatic impound,
Nauseating compassion suffocates my being,
Others’ smiles, joy, and purpose evoke the quintessence of my past,
The summertime picnics and amorous play of dalliance,
Our infinite dedication consecrated in God’s house,
And physical passion imprinted in our progenies,
The hint of a grin alienates my face,
Ignorance is release from my memories,
Freedom from my past.
Observing my companion inmates,
I envy their forgetfulness in the blur of their history,
To implement my own barrier I participate in activities such as this,
I remain to obtain the necessities of simple life—prizes of tissues and cough drops,
Through flirtation with Lady Luck,
Once earning my pension with dedication and diligence,
Now my future depends on just five letters.
Our only hope glows at the head of the room,
The deciding factor of our future, the judgment of our game,
She beams refreshingly but hauntingly
The smile on her face reminiscent of
That expression I once savored in my arms in pale pink.
But that gaggling grin now is embarrassed of her father,
Too contrary to her own state of being.
Pain ripples through my heart.
The youth catches my stare and grins back,
I force a wink from my stationary position.
“Bingo!” I croak.
My toils have been triumphant,
Congratulations dimly echo throughout the room,
And an unfelt smile flits across my face.
This sad success only further proves to me,
I am simply a shadow of my former existence.