he chose to return home  
to the familiar sights, sounds, smells  
to leave the silent antiseptic Medicare paid
vacation suite behind, for some other sinking soul  

he chose to deny the “in home palliative care”  
for he said it would be like a door to door peddler
you allowed in , one who would never leave
hocking her wares as if he got to keep them  
when she would give the same calming commodities  
to a stranger, the very day he was gone  

they all said, he would be in pitiful pain,
peeling his skin off pain without the magic potions
of modernity, the ones that brought on Morpheus' sleep,
and lapped up miles he had left

he knew though,  he had no miles left  
only a few steps, to the bathroom, perhaps,
if his old soldier’s legs held out, perhaps
he could make it to the yard again one time,
to see the ivy he planted in lesser numbered years,
the cool soft vines he watered and ignored,
until the sun turned them a yawning yellow,
then a brusque brown, perchance he could make it
to their home one more time, before the last speck of green
vanished in the dying light