(Before Death)
On his deathbed he didn’t think of this or
that
Things one might think he’d think of…
Only of things he didn’t do, or wish he
had!
He called them Iron Hours, days in his
life:
Those he missed, dismissed!
So much so, as with a weary gesture, as if
they
Were hewn out of a mountain.
And now with death so very close, he lays
And will die alone, in a hospital room:
and he
Know this, well!
The white worm of death is eating into his
chest
At his heart, he is pale and panting.
His mind immensely remote, welded to this
last
Hour or so; welded as never before.
The young doctor looks in, says:
“Can I give you something to help you
sleep?”
“No!” screams the old man, then smiles in
dark
Splendor, now utters:
“The day of death no man should squander, miss!”
Mute, the young doctor stood, strange and
Sonorous, as if: far-flung, than the poles
of Mars.
#5271/6-11-2016
