Your final few
days when hospice
coffee serves me structure,
respite from the urgent ebbing of time:
One
Like a fire ant—
across the hallways, past
slippered women knitting
baby caps and afghans, past
the porch where an unbowed
man lights up his last pack—
I carry the nineteen inch
television you will never turn on.
Two
Four o’clock is happy hour
unhesitating you order
Harvey Wallbanger, sending
volunteers off for ingredients.
Nights are bad—weeping
for losses and loves, counting
them, holding each one
in memory’s vigil.
Three
Our world narrows to bathroom and bed.
I Oil of Olay your arms
legs and vanishing body, knee
scarred from a lost sack race at Rod
& Gun club, when together we endured
picking pebbles from your wound.
Earlier we poached California
poppies that would struggle to live
in backyard loam.
Four
Nurse says It will be soon. Your feet
feel cold to my touch. Swing Low
Sweet Chariot I sing. Mother
you are going home
can you hear me? No answer
just a hand moving up down
then still
I close my eyes and you are gone.
