"You'll like it here," his daughter lied.
"Look at the beautiful view outside."
"To be here in the winter, it's equally nice,
Snow-covered vales and lakes full of ice."
But it was hard to picture that now, in July,
And they both knew - by autumn - the old man would die.

A perfect place to hide, or be hidden,
With the rest of the bedraggled and the bedridden.
"Here are your friends, and this is your table.
This is your TV - and yes, it's got cable."
He doodled feebly on an ancient spirograph,
And browsed through pornographic websites and had a bitter laugh.

The others played scrabble and fought pointless fights.
He ticked off the weeks and the days and nights,
Counting the seconds till he 'passed away'
(As the doctors and nurses and family would say.)
Gradually his disinfected air-conditioned room
Was becoming his prison, his temple, his tomb.

His body decayed; mould was rotting his flesh
"Come now, Mr Morgan, let's get you fresh.
Have something to eat, then come out and have fun."
That evening, the carried him into the sun.
To die in the summer, without a single friend
A futile life at a miserable end.