Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

The Land of Oz

When I stare at it now,
it gives me chills,
the tall grey building where they used to live.
It is there like an ugly skyscraper
misplaced in a world of overpriced green.
The prison-like windows,
the decaying sidewalk,
the stench of fried
emanating from its lobby.
I think of the people I came to know there:
The ninety-four year old with her Pomeranian dog named Timmy,
the dark-haired man who always said hello to me,
the nasty woman at the counter who always insisted I signed in,
even though she knew who I was,
the gossipy quartet who always ate lunch together and
whispered about my mother,
the black maintenance men
who never seemed to do anything,
but yet always seemed busy,
and the awful silver-haired woman who worked at the cafeteria
who was sure I was using my parents’ discount to buy my own lunch.
I see them sometimes
when I drive by,
out on their patio chairs,
or in the parking lot walking to work,
and I wonder how I ever survived those six months
with my own parents.
I know I will never see any of them again.