Monday, May 14, 2012
Words shoved out and stumbled
Upon the parched tongue and cracked lips
Of a dying old man:
A gloved hand grasped his,
My gloved hand, though I’d wished it wasn’t.
Dried sores almost festering and again the scream:
Needles plunge beneath the surface
Seeking out a vain to tap.
The pain’s too much so he shouts:
All this time, I’m there. Standing.
By his side I’m standing, holding his hand.
Leaning in, all I can do is gently whisper:
Yes, you can.