“. . . I knew him, Horatio. . .”
Posted April 23 2012
That you are dying is sure.
As the blood that warms the hands lying before you,
As the light that slants across the cloud-scarred sky.
You are hollow as the stick of wood
That crackles into embers dying with the fire,
Lying in the hot grate, gray amid the fire.
Nothing can quench the desire.
But you know already that no one will care
When it comes time to forget to pay
That last bill, or water those forgotten flowers
Dying in the warm bed, already dead
To your desire. Or if something isn’t said
When you fall dizzy in the shower,
Or when the doctor enters the cramped room
Where you sit scared, and frowns and shakes her head.
No one will share, when you confront the empty sky.
All else will live or die that day, other people
Will clean the cold grate, watch rain fill the flowers,
Cancel the bill. The doctor will spend those hours
With others, not recalling where you once sat,
Bearing in warm hands the warmth of a slanted fire,
Crackling with the hope of unshared desire.