That last time
we talked, my son,
the very last,
unknown to us,

never ventured
on profound subjects,
(as they do in films
or heroic novels)

we conversed
on the mundane:
how did you sleep?
What was the food like?

or trying to explain
the puffed up limbs
and pain( having
complained to the nurse

about your visual state)
when you did you pass
***** last? and some
such usual things.

You were tired
your eyes were closing,
and unknown
to either of us,

you were probably dying
for the first time, then,
without priest
or prayer or amen.

What was it like
that first time?
Revived, they
called us in,

while they set you up
to machines and monitors
and wires and tubes
and all such things.

You were comatosed,
eyes closed, lying there,
hands at your sides,
puffy and discoloured.

Did you hear us talk?
Did you know
we were there?
We held your hands

at the end, my son,
wanted you to stay,
wanted you
to be with us,

but death took you quickly,
far and away.