Hospice

HOSPICE

No one is arguing the diagnosis 

of Sick. The symptoms have grown 

impossible to ignore. The baby finds 

a piece of candy on the floor and eats

the engorged tick that dropped from

the dog. At some point the fog lifts

on the valley of the doe’s eye 

hollowed out by soldier fly, a tangle 

of intestines blocking the shoulder 

where we would go to change a tire 

if we weren’t also out of gas. 

There is silence in the waiting room 

when the doctor asks if anyone wants

to put up a fight that the world is right. 

We passed that exit miles back and threw

our trash out the window. The talk now

is about  how to ease the panting chest,

how best to hold the bony hand

and make something worthwhile

of this waning light.