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Rated: E · Poetry · Death · #1156887
written for a resident at the dementia assisted-living where I work

Francis Xaviar liked to sing,
merrily, merrily, merrily,
life is but a dream.

He taught four daughters
how to fix a flat,
mend a leak,
keep a promise.
He didn't care there were no MBA's here,
just the Haitian aides,
Cuban maids,
Sunday volunteers.
He loved Communion bread and wine,
(God embedded in matter and time)
four-letter words,
old cowboy movies.
We washed his feet,
dressed his wounds,
anointed his head with oil.
At the end,
his ashes cast
upon the waters of memory,
together we rowed
gently, gently,
gently down the stream.
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