A CARING PROFESSIONAL

By Eliza Nimmo

When I tell them I’m a carer

For the elderly,

They always say: How kind you are!

But little do they know

It is this kindness

Which is killing me.

***

For mine is a caring profession,

Which involves the handling

Of wealthy and rancid jowls

Which are brushed with rouge.

Coaxing a skull

Filled with amyloid

Plaque, which has shrunken

Its brain to the size of a pea.

Witnessing the pale blue

Of two hemispheres,

Grown wide with fear

And utter hatred

For how she must rely

Completely upon me.

***

Despite the advancement of her years

The ghost is still held fast

By a wrapping of skin,

Fragile as paper.

As she struggles to lift,

Up from her commode

She spits that I am her captor.

A sadist. A class-A bitch.

But little does she realise

That I am also captive here.

You see, it is this kindness

To her, which permits me

To live.

The nurse tries to reassure me:

Don’t take it personally.

You have no to right to take it personally

When the client says:

You are less than human

 - an insect, in fact.

Even senility wants

To put me in my place.

***

I am in a caring profession

And will soon commit these papers,

Bearing my name, to ash.

Then I will join the faceless angels

Who have sat nursing

By the bedside of history.

The endlessly kind,

Who will all expire

Under its boot

Without even a whisper.

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