Please Close Her Mouth

I stroked her hair and
Kissed her brow,

The skin still soft, and,
If not warm, at least
Not quite cold either.

Her eyes were closed,
And wrinkled around
The closure.

The knobs of her knees
And toes of her poor
Misshapen feet
Tented the thin blanket.

A forgettable pattern was printed
On the hospital gown, and
I averted my eyes from where
A slit in the material
Showed one sunken breast.

Her mouth, unfortunately,
Was open,
As if frozen
In an unattractive posture
Of sleep.

But her hands were clasped
In a fittingly beatific pose.
The nurse had arranged them
After Mom had taken
Her last breath.

We wondered why
The nurse had not also
Closed her mouth;
But perhaps she had,
And something in Mom
Had continued her late resistance
To decorum.

A Thrilling Sight

Twice now, 

In recent weeks, 

I've gone into the backyard 

As evening rises, 

And been thrilled 

By the sight of caballeros, 

Riding high, 

Billowing scarlet and fire 

Across the darkening sky. 

I think you might have seen them, too. 

That's the magic of the thing

Of course: 

That you might have seen them, too.

Ipod Wisdom

Oh, am I ever full of life here 

On the health club’s upright cycle, 

Facing a bank of TVs silently presenting 

College football games.

Ipod is in place, pumping Bob Dylan into my ear.

 

“Forever Young!” Bob howls, and, 

Head bobbing, my legs churn faster. 

Up the burned calories! 

Up the heart rate! 

“Forever Young!’ Bob Dylan yowls, and 

I agree with the sentiment, humping 

Legs, heart, hands beating time, 

Flailing my upright cycle. 

Until The Ipod shuffles to its 

Next random selection: My boy Bob again, 

But this time: “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.” 

I don't have to tell you 

That there's a message here.

The Vicodin's in the Car

I don't remember
Why it was I put
That Vicodin
In the glove compartment
Of my car,
But I'm glad I found it.

Body, head, everything
Aching, feverish.
I lay down, but
Can't escape a litany
Of depressing diagnoses
Gurneying through my brain.

It's my throat
Is what makes it weird.
Glands, most likely:
Lumpish, and tender to touch.
Something wrong there.

Hell, it's cancer is what scares me:
Dying,
Of course.
Take one of those Vicodin, though:
Problems solved,
For a while, at least.

Finally went to see the doc.
Nasty sore throat
Been going around.
Looks like mine's getting better, though;
Might not even need the antibiotics, but
To be on the safe side
Yadda yadda yadda--

Not a word about
Refilling that prescription
For some more Vicodin.

Incontinence as Metaphor

As I’ve grown older, I’ve noticed 

That within a small, but potent, subset Of human behavior— 

“Backstage acts" I think they’re called, 

Ones at which we would look askance 

If they were expressed openly— 

My inhibitions there 

Are losing strength. 

When, or where, or with what, will it all end? 

 It's hard to say, but 

Embarrassing legal problems could result... 

 

And yet, thinking back, 

I can remember many, many 

Times when I followed demons to places 

Where right now I can't even imagine-- 

Don't want to. It all just goes to prove-- 

I guess-- 

That there's nothing new In losing control.

The Last Time I Saw Mom Alive

A Mexican musician
Held his high tenor
An impossibly long time
As we got drunk
On margaritas and beer.

Later,
My brother-in-law and I danced
Under his tall trees' green canopy,
Fluorescent against the night's soft sky.

The music?
I'm thinking Commodores:
"Brick House."

And us?
We laughed, muttered,
Staggered in circles,
Tried on faces and voices,
All across the wide backyard.

My mom was
In a suburban rest home
Not far away,

Up on the top floor
In a sheltered wing
Called Comfort Cove.

The next day,
Before the long ride home,
I paid her a final call.

There was only TV noise
In the dayroom,
And residents still as statues.

Mom was lying curled up,
On top a fake leather sofa—
Tiny,
Like a child
Wearing clothes that were too big.

I sat on the floor
And took her hand.
She opened bright, blue,
Watering eyes,
Smiled into mine,
And whispered softly,
“I love you,
“I love you,"

“I love you,”
Over and over
And over again.

. . . . .

Punching Cardboard

Trying to feel more at ease
In this wet and cold climate,
And not give in
To the twinges of pain in my lower back,
I decide to invest Saturday’s chores with
More than my usual panache.

I stride widely
Down backyard’s gravelly path
To the soggy place
Where I punch
The yielding cardboard
Of an Amazon box
Into a more compact shape
For the recycling bin.

Aware of the neighbor's possible gaze,
I ignore the rain
Sluicing down my forehead,
Keep my gut sucked in,
And pivot

With animal, yogic grace:
Bound back
Through iron and rough wood gate,
Up pantry steps,
To the kitchen,
Below the sink,

Ready to manfully dispatch,
Next,
The food scrap waste.

To see a video reenactment of these events, check this out.

Like a Silver-Plated Pistol

As a consequence of
A troublesome bout of
Lower back pain—
Yet another intimation of mortality—
I’ve recently begun imagining myself,
And it’s gotten so it’s hardly a stretch,
Retired, you know.

Knees creaking up some cobblestoned street,
In a small
—For some reason—
Mexican town.
Relying on an ebony cane
To navigate stylishly,
Though carefully,
Into the late gentle night—

[Hand clap]
The revery is broken--
A bottle breaks--
Angry shouts—
Clichés? Yes—but still I stop,
My native curiosity
Replaced by caution,
You might even call it fear…

Now I have always,
Although very occasionally,
Thought of my dying
As the result of some
Terminal--obviously--
Albeit short-lived
Bodily malfunction.
An accident? Act of God? Nah, hunh-unh--
Never seriously considered...
New thought, though:

What if,
In the lacuna between
Spanish streetlights,
Two local toughs suddenly
Stand at my shoulder
Full of evil intent?
And what if—
All meaningful goodbyes, dear God,
Dispensed with—
My life ends here?

It’s a thought.

Scuffle,
Slip on a stone,
One grabs my cane,
The other tears at my wallet,
And I look up into the muzzle
Of an odd silver-plated gun--

What happens next,
We’re not meant to imagine.
[Fingersnap] Bang.
Just like that—
[Fingersnap] Bang.
It’s all over...

But just as this senseless action is joined
Between trigger and bullet,
What if this mal hombre
Looks down into these eyes
That are staring at Death,
And sees there--instead of fear--
He sees humor--

Well, that almost
Goes without saying
In this ironic world, but--
Maybe even warmth?
Or understanding?
If that's possible.

Forgiveness, of course,
Is not ours to give, and
I can't really know
Or even predict
My response.

So instead of being cute,
Tempting fate, or the devil,
I'll just hope
That if it comes to that,
It will all be over quickly,
And I won't have begged,
Or shat in my pants.

That Ought To See Us Out

“That oughta see us out, ” 

Is what my wife’s folks 

Used to say, 

After they’d retired, 

Whenever they’d buy 

A moderately big-ticket item. 

 “That oughta see us out—“ 

 Imagine saying that. 

 How close you would have to feel

To your own mortality To compare it to 

That of a toaster, 

Or even a refrigerator. 

I imagine it could well be true, 

In my case, at least, 

That any number of 

Mundane possessions 

Will see me out. 

 But I really don’t like to think about 

Which ones.