Brown Heggs, Close To February

He's lasted through the physical pain.
Cherry cough drops to a triple by-pass
to a difibulator--
now he just wants to say he's got a duty
to heal himself.
We have golden silence together.
The grand, slow death of a dignified
senior in years
is what he aches for.

In the morning, he takes insulin.
Then I feed him hot cream cereal and
brown eggs.
What is so masterful is the grand
design of memories of being well
he has.
Why! We've been through unforgettable
mystic evenings breathing sighs of
relief,
nothing has happened yet.

A narcissism in the basin water,
as he shaves off his beard near Christmas
tells me that he is just a boy inside,
that he will live forever.
When will I know he is really dying?
One dies in the heart
after an attack, a little each time.
He's had more than two.

I dream of hanging laundry out in the
summer breeze of my grandmother's
clothesline,
when I was just a child.
At that age, his boyish face, in some
other county, dreaming of motorcycle
rides with his uncle, glitters like
geese on the lawn,
nosing into the laundry basket.

I have to find out what his favorite color
is,
I've never asked him.
I surely must tomorrow.
Like a million thin questions I've wanted
to ask him.
And he. Always his little stories.
Each of them, so poignant.

I stick to his nakedness like sunshine.

The snow falls,
and he peeks out the blinds,
in love with the cold weather.
It will be Valentine's Day and probably
snowy.
Then he will offer his greetings again,
after taking me off to the grocer's,
with his heart bent on buying me
chocolate again.