He lies there, crumpled and ragged—
a pile of unwashed laundry.
From his lost-dog look, he’s
got one—maybe two weeks left.
Tongue flicks between two stumps
that once housed his teeth:
“Fuckers forgot my photo album.”
I nod at the indignity.
His last glimpse of the world,
before admission to Calvary Hospice,
billboards for hair plugs,
erectile dysfunction.
Outside the window,
stars drink away the night.
They’ll never finish by morning.
His fingers clasp my hand.
Hatred flushes his face.
I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.
