“If someone asks about me, say I died.
I hate you coming, I hate this nursing home.”
My sister never like me but I tried.

“Why do you bother? You see, I know you lied
to get me in here,” the voice reverberates, a drone.
“If someone asks about me, say I died.”

Attached to oxygen, she cannot rise
this year or last to stroll about her room.
My sister never liked me but I tried.

“I want my job back. Admit you’re on their side,
the men who got me fired. In fact, you’re the one.
If someone asks about me, say I died.

“And Mommy and Daddy, now they’re blind.
Well, I’m almost, I hope you’ll be soon.”
My sister never like me but I tried.

I ask about her meals, the nurses, bide
the minutes till these last words each afternoon:
“When someone asks about you, I say he died.”
My sister never loved me but I tried.