The stillness round my form
Was like the stillness in the air
Between the heaves of storm.
The eyes beside had wrung them dry,
And breaths were gathering sure
For that last onset, when the king
Be witnessed in his power.
I willed my keepsakes, signed away
What portion of me I
Could make assignable, and then
There interposed a fly,
With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,
Between the light and me;
And then the windows failed, and then
I could not see to see.
So this is what my life has come down to.
Watching two doctors play footsie. My last living moments will be
watching the guys that are supposed
to be putting me back together,
flirting.
With each other.
That's my last view as a mortal soul,
two homosexuals, bantering,
above and about my pancreas.
Thank you, Uncle Sam!
I always thought last thing I would ever see would be
my ceiling
as I drift of to sleep, in 1999 or
some time near that.
My kids
and grandkids would've just been over,
eating dinner,
watching the game.
When they left I would go upstairs to sleep
(I was really warn out),
Doris would stay in the kitchen,
doing the dishes, making tea.
I would get in my old man pajamas
and lie down.
Flat on my back.
Close my eyes.
Then sleep.
Doris would come up upstairs,
get in her old lady night gown,
lie down next to me,
like we've done for fifty-five years,
and turn off the light.
In the morning, she'd get up,
go down to the kitchen,
start breakfast,
pancakes,
eggs,
bacon,
sausage,
toast,
having not one thought that
I
would not be coming down
again.
After fifteen minutes,
when our foods done,
Doris'll come upstairs,
wondering
why I'm not up yet.
Then she'll know.
Shocked,
she'd call my daught-in-law,
ask her what to do.
All the adults would come over,
call the police,
and wait.
When the fuzz get
there,
Doris wouldn't know how to tell
her story,
my story,
our story.
Two days would go by,
then my funeral.
It would be a simple one.
No flag would be given Doris,
no guns would be fired,
just my family,
my fishing buddies,
my friends from the past,
and whoever else I knew from town
who wanted to spend a Sunday on me.
One week would pass,
my daughter-in-law would come by,
as she did everyday,
between running errands and picking up the kids,
to check up on my Doris.
She would check
the kitchen,
no Doris,
the family room,
no Doris
the dining room,
no Doris,
the bathroom,
no Doris,
and finally,
the bedroom.
There she would find Doris,
asleep.
Our graves,
side by side,
as in life,
read the words, "As it was and
as it is." Because
when you die, your life feels
as it did when you were alive.
If it was
blood
death
smoke
in the afterlife you would
taste the blood
feel the death
and smell the smoke.
If it was
pancakes
love
flowers
in the afterlife you would
taste the pancakes
feel the love
and smell the flowers.
Me and Doris would be
happy
content.
But I got drafted.
There is no Doris,
no country home,
no children and grandchildren.
There will be
no pancakes
no love
no flowers.
Just
blood
death
smoke.
My last view as a mortal soul will be
two homosexuals, bantering,
above and about my pancreas. And they
don't even know why.
Maybe it's me dying
but I'm seeing things clearer. All of the knowledge
of my eighteen years
makes sense.
"Stop the fighting," I gasp,
hitting at there operating hands.
The older one calls for some more anesthetic,
the other one looks at his colleague,
mumbles, what appears to me
to be,
"Amen."
And then,
before the mask came near me,
I fell asleep.