Where-
and the place
too familiar,
passageways,
dark, the bed
at the end
of the ward,
and you,
you there,
at the side,
bent over,
Stoic until the end.
Where in the realm of things
does sense
come of this?
I, how to see
sense in this?
The unfolding drama,
the end game,
the drawn out decider.
You-
how soon would
it have come,
my son?
Did you?
And how much?
Was it your hand
on my shoulder
months later
at the Carthusian mass?
The long passage way,
drawn out in dreams
to the same conclusion,
the same end:
What will be the comfort;
who will mend?
A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.