NOT MEND.

A FATHER'S CONVERSATION WITH HIS DEAD SON.

The Catholic priest came
and gave last rites;
you were comatosed,
though I expect you heard;
they say one does,
even then, shalom, amen.

We held your hands
most of that last day,
one of us staying,
whilst the other
(went for drink or such)
went silently away,
but too long or much.

Puffed up hand and arm,
your eyes closed;
tubes and wires
coming out
here and there;
all those machines
keeping you alive,
pumping away,
softly noisy.

We never gave up
you'd survive,
watched and held
and talked until
the last eased out breath.

A lonely place,
some say, is death.

We were there,
breaking up
at your departure;
didn't want you to go;
but you fought until end,
stoic, silent, Seneca like,
our son, and these hearts,
which no time
or words or prayers
or creed( at this time)
can mend.