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Nursing Home
by Eliza Camire

First- the smell of that gritty pink soap and the institutionalized food,
like sticky corn and whipped potatoes with processed turkey.
Then- hospital white linoleum floors and the constant
feeling down your spine that somebody's watching.
There's a tiny box, the size of a
garage door opener,
and the color of ivory, that clings
to the back of her navy blue wheelchair.
She sees me leaving,
the front door still held
automatically open.
But as she gets closer
that tiny box stuck
on the back of her chair starts to beep
loudly- down through out the hall.

She says
it's like being naked all of the time.
And I move myself out
of the way of the closing doors, outside
I can feel my car keys digging
into my left hip and the air smells
like newly cut grass and geraniums

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