the drizzle never
thickened into rain.
if I stood close to the wall
in the garden or the window
of the hospital gift shop
when I went out to smoke,
my hair got just a little damp.
his wrists were tied with
cotton ribbons to the bed rails.
to keep him from pulling out
the IV needles in his arms
or the catheter in his penis.
that’s what he wanted to do.
even though his words had
turned to meaningless mush
the pain was clear enough
in the gibberish. i think he
was crying for his mama.
the machines were assisting
his breathing and his heart.
his wife said i hate this,
are we just going to sit here
for days, waiting for him to die?
so the doctor or the nurse
i don’t remember who,
shut off the devices.
and he slept, his heart beat
slowly for hours and then
in the briefest moment, it stopped.
and he was still warm,
still quiet, still there as if
he wasn’t really gone.
there were forms to sign
before we silently rode
the elevator to the lobby.
we stood under the entry portico
while the men fetched the cars
because the midnight drizzle
had finally thickened into rain.
