5 February 2013
It flashes like this, Like a burnished mirror, Broken into pieces, But not dust, not yet:
The tired old man Rests Old Bill Cosby tells stories From the television Hanging from above, silently
Clothed in red With ever-present stains Little else, I bet, beneath the covers As his feet poke out From the white
His hair is as ashen As it's ever been, as I know Not frail, never frail, as he fills the bed Wrinkled hands still strong Lay at his side I stay quiet, just wanting to Listen to him before I can't.
Beside me, a machine bubbles Gurgles merrily in its chatter He himself, his eyebrows canted Drops names like unwatched movies In his low, deep voice Honed for sarcasm and teasing over the years
Discoloured skin Purple and red and pale and freckled Fingers worn from mechanic days Cursing his weak body from His strong mind
Let him rest Gently, gently, we come and go Everything is the same As once was And different, hugely so
We wait, We fill empty spaces With chatter, on hope of a smile We follow the family motto: Work hard Smile pretty And keep your nose clean.
(TBFE)
Before I Can't • Opuss № I