Photo by Alex Guillaume on Unsplash
It’s Time, You Say
It’s time, you say,
it’s yours to make the call of when to stop
to feel the years
attack your joints and swell your knees until
you don’t agree
it’s fair to be in so much pain to move around
from bed to chair,
from chair to bed all day to what avail
precisely now.
You’re done, you say,
of all you’ve been on earth to do as man,
your cause fulfilled,
complete in ways you dreamed and some that were
just draw of luck
you took as signs of purpose, all the same,
the jobs, the wives
the house, the genes that passed to those who could succeed
and hold their own.
At ninety-three,
you’ve lost the will to be the ancient bloke
who needs to ring
a pretty nurse to get a wipe and change,
a diapered invalid,
the kind you judged, despised, in all your life.
The time has come
to close your eyes to leave behind the trap
your body’s become.
Your terms, you say,
you call the date of expiration now
before it’s late
to be the one to take the charge in full.
Command the heart
to beat its last, the lungs to stop their draw.
The time of death
is ten past six on Tuesday, January twenty-four.
Thirteen Eggs in His Pocket
I find him making the pilgrimage
One low step at a time
Moving his six-foot body
In crablike fashion
Dragging over the mud
A bucket of wheat
Lifting it a few inches
At a time
He leans over the bucket
Using it as a cane
To support his bent torso
From falling in the dirt
Face down
A fifty-foot marathon
Which he must make
to feel like a man
He has no respect
For the weak
He must prove to himself
That he can feed the chickens
In hospital slippers
Even as he dumps
The bucket of wheat
By the rusty gate
Spent
Then he disappears
For an eternity
Among the bare trees
And grapevines
Of the foggy December morning
When his dark silhouette
Finally emerges
On his return
He seems taller
Straighter than the crab
That dragged the bucket
“Run, get me a carton, he groans victorious,
I have thirteen eggs in my pocket.”
The Morning After
How can I pull the covers over my head
While I am waiting to cross the busy road
And curl back into my bed
As my feet touch the zebra crossing
And close my eyes to disappear
As the traffic light counts down to zero?
How can I stop the tears muddying my face
While I mount the heavy steps to the entrance
And not scream into the limestone facade
While I pull the frigid handles on the door
And press both hands over my mouth
As I moan, fine, how are you?
How can I stop seeing your still face
While I rummage my bag for the office keys
As your body is turning stiff in the morgue
And I dump the whole damn bit onto the hallway floor
Because you lost the will to live
And I can’t pretend that I didn’t die a little with you?