By William Olsen

Julie. Jaimie. Maya. Clayton with a reputation for being the
least far gone has fallen on the floor again. Missy with her
ever sour face and her rare bursts of humor. Or the nameless
woman in Memory Care who’d come out of her room at the
end of the hall naked for anyone, her face with the beam of
having accomplished something nobody even dreamed before.
Marilyn cradling the doll that puzzles her in a quieting way.
Dick a World War II vet with Sansabelt pants always asking
after his belt. He’d sidle up to me because I knew his name.
Always smiling. And Jerry, a Colonel who served in Vietnam
brazenly stealing from his lunch mates, right off the plate,
or pounding the locked metal door every day right about
noon, and, no matter why, ready to demote the lot of us.

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William Olsen is the author of six books of poetry, including TechnoRage (Triquarterly). His poetry has received fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, NEA, and Breadloaf. He lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan.