The Journey

It is in the sound of the apparatus, like gods,

they surround him, stare into the heart of him

and murmur a decision about him,  that I feel

my disconnect from the prospect of his death.

I offer silent prayers to these unknown machines.

Every labored breath he takes, I promise another act

I will perform as penance, as payment, a stalling

of the ferry’s price, as if my thoughts are a cat of nine tails,

and I flay my future with this fear of being left fatherless.

On his finger resides a clip, as if he is dangling on a line,

or being dangled; a slim chance that he may yet return

to my shore, open his eyes, cease his ramblings

about a past before I was born and smile again at me,

his last boy - this father of mine fights a battle in a white room

and outside the world is grey but between is the deep abyss.

I have not the words of farewell, sacred or profane;

they got lost somewhere in the journey – I

cannot remember when he held me, or the feel of his lips,

only his chin, rough as sandpaper, and his watery eyes

that smiled at me whenever I found my way home.

I have wandered far, thought I had left him behind

and now I stand at his bedside and realize

he is about to take the farthest journey and I stand here

and try to remember every shattered aspect of us.