Too, Only, Only

Too big the bed now that I’m alone. Too much kitchen. Mr. Can Opener and I live in a drawer. Too mountain the stairs, my garden a jungle. Walls with not-too-like-them-anymore photos of baby grandkids, now ten.
 
Only, my daughter onlys: if her place was bigger, the care home nicer, if my bungalow had sold for more and paid for deluxe. Only I don’t fuss.
 
Only bring what’ll fit in the wardrobe, in the chipped bureau the home provides. A sweater, slippers, mostly housecoats. Never too many, if only for day and night in the room’s lumpy chair, coffin bed.