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.
Every labored breath he takes, I promise
another act performed as penance, as payment;
a
stalling of The Ferry’s price. My thoughts,
a cat o' nine tails, I flay my future with.
On his finger resides a clip. He dangles on a line,
or is dangled; a slim chance that he may
yet return
to my shore and cease his
ramblings about a past
before I was born and smile
again at me, his last boy.
I have not the words of farewell, sacred or
profane; I
cannot remember when he last 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 and thought I had left him
behind
but now I stand at his hospital bed and realize
he is to take the farthest journey
as I stand there
and try to remember every shattered aspect
of us.
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