james

you are 48.
you lay always in bed,
fingers interlaced over your chest,
eyes closed against the pain.
your wife died in december.
you will die too.
soon. june maybe.
your mother cares for your dying body.
socks on your feet.
a cotton gray t-shirt cut up the back.
diapers.
the nurse will change your bandages.
no one else can bare to do it.
infection is winning the prize of your flesh.
your skin is almost perforated along your groin.
one good pull and the skin would peel away from the oozing puss that drains and soaks your bedsheets.
everyone speaks around you in hushed tones.
and to you with words and phrases for a child.
i helped you stand once.
you got out of the bed to get to the toilet.
I was so surprised that you were taller than I.