What was that
all about, my son?

What happened there
while I was elsewhere,
Ole, my dear one?

Where did that sneaking up
on tiptoe death come from?
From what dark passageway
or behind from which
dowdy curtain did it spring?

Had I known,
I would have not
gone home,
I would have fought
to hold you back,
would have held you close,
not let you loose.  

I still see that short ward,
the hospital smell,
that shadowy corner,
the off-white bed,

you bent over,
head down,
puffed up,
breathing hard,
whispering words,
unable to take flight
as wounded birds.