Death Bed

Death Bed

The wife of my patient

is impatient.            

Her mind is a wet newsprint.

She falls because

the earth cannot stop calling her.

His bones are eaten through.

He cannot lift his head.

She says, in a bullying voice,

“You’d better hurry and get well

because I need you for some things—

and I love you.”

I am astonished,

but he says her name

and she hobbles to him.

His hand shakes

as he pulls her down

for a kiss.

I’m a butterfly then,

reading the air with its wings.

******************************

Cold Morning, May

I tipped the waitress well

though she took my order  

after the ladies I preceded.

Generosity needs no reason,

I tell myself, laying down the bills.

This thought should force my heart  

open, but it doesn’t.

Rain alights on the windshield

as I pull onto South Boulder Road.

North on Cherryvale,

Baseline Lake has pulled a shawl of mist

around its shoulders. It  wants

to be left alone.

Two brown horses stand in a wet field.

They might mind the rain, but

they stand there and take it.

A church sign announces,

god’s grace is all you need,

and I think Really?

I am almost home, where

your every cough

feels like a complaint. It’s true:

our life is too hard.

You gave me time away

but I cannot smooth over my exhaustion

              or rage.

You must feel this way each time

you drive home

but I’m not used to it.

I disappoint myself.