Arranging his hospital gown
to hide a black pubic flash,
he doesn’t seem to understand
the doctor’s indictment
For all the mayhem he’s wrought,
I want him safe from this cabal
of his children in a hurry,
shouting questions before he can
get his mouth to work into a reply
“How bad? How long? Hospice, maybe?
Cost per day? Oxygen? Quality of life?”
When the final verdict’s read –
Thanksgiving, maybe Christmas –
they slap him on the shoulder, relieved,
file out of the consultation room,
each with an exhortation:
“Call 911 if you fall, Pop”
“Think living trust”
“Write notes to yourself”
“Don’t sign anything”
He’s always given them another shot,
be it bourbon or forgiveness
Now he wants one too:
just to be taken home,
sit by a window in his recliner,
daydream of being with Marie again
An incorrigible lover of con men and outlaws,
I pray not for his soul, but for him to beat this rap,
free to live another lifetime of insanity and sin
Even a condemned man is granted last words