DEATH ON FRIDAY

I don’t want to write this today,
but I saw death on Friday.
He was sitting up in bed in intensive care.
He had long strands of white, wispy
hair strewn across his chiseled head.
Wild eyed stare of desperation,
a man trapped inside his own body,
locked away tight with years of pain.

His anguish filled disappointed days
exploded all at once without a sign
leaving him with new chains to drag,
wires, tubes, monitors, and a plan.
Can’t eat, move, speak, or react.
What has it done to him, and them?
Twisting his neck, he nods and groans,
bursting forth like a shouted confession.
Squeeze his hand to tell him all right and
you have to tell him that all is forgiven.

She hands him the neighbor’s card
“Get Well Soon” on the front and
then she reads the inside’s inscription
like she’s reading a book to a child.
The card gets placed in a numbed hand.
The front cover brings him around and
he raises it to his nose, then he begins to
of all things, smell the card for a moment.
Closing his eyes, resting, it falls to the bed
and I notice a vivid photograph
plastered with big, beautiful flowers,
blooming purple roses. Just then,
his thoughts are of her garden.