He’s taken at the end of spring, alone in
White sheets that are wrinkled and soiled.
Never to smell the bleach and rubbing alcohol
The ambient sounds of the ICU floor, with
Ringing, buzzing, beeping, and ethereal voices.
Eternal peace, they say when he is given last rites
He can hear what they are saying, but it’s still a dream
Wake up and rise like Lazarus
But the voices are farther away, and the light is dim
He doesn’t have the strength to play jacks as the
Voice urges him to come out and play.
Flashes like lightning and muffled tin can, ringing like
The bells at mass before the taking of the Eucharist.
It’s time to wake out of this dream
He has things to finish. To start. To do.
Pinching himself doesn’t work like it used to.
Rolling and screaming. Nothing.
The tin bells turn to cow bells that turn to Jingle Bells
The movie of his life plays faster and faster
Eighty-five years of home movies
The curtain closes as he says,
This must be eternal peace, as the voices say
Fade to black