Friday, September 16, 2011

Those Last Days

hazmat hands flat against the van
a rubbled city in the desert
terror replaced by helpless acceptance

bombs and guns and death
drifting in the dusty air
covering everything

the state of things
inside my father's body
the locals losing out, inch by inch

in the fabric of this man
a spent village, small and weak
sucked to its essence

(if you don't know
what I'm talking about
then I'll speak more clearly)

we left him
hunched and dry
on his side

alone each night
in that bed
in the ward

polished linoleum
working cold
those tired nurses

beeps and screens
rushing, rushing,
giving drugs, feeding machines

he lay strapped to a heat
burning to leave
eyes flooded blind

holding back the rage
his fingers
flexing and twisting

morning glimpse
first thought hit
do everything

for him now

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