Would you read to me?

Would you read to me?

my father whispered in my ear,

lying inert on the screechy hospital bed.

through the frayed curtains,

through the kind cleavage of a window,

a sliver of light came to say goodbye,

to the words clad in silence

au revoir,

from me to him.

How do I look?

he quizzed, feverishly,

words leaped across the bed,

touring through the air

escaped, in conclusion,

to the crest of the decrepit lighthouse

standing outside
alone

like relic of an ancient life,

like his youth, memories, life.

He pleaded, "do me a favor

read me a line, a sonnet

at the minimum, a personal ad from the Sunday specials."

a sheet of December air rested on his copper skin

“I think I am going to catch a cold, tonight”, he said.

“this must be a city of ice”, he groused.

“you have to do something for me”

“you have to get me fatter”

“steal me some fire”

“light me a cigarette.”

Dodging the December sun in my eyes

gently I moved away from the window,

from the light

for lies don’t look so bad in dark,

“you look so bloody good”, I replied

the tragic stink of my words filled the air

show me a piece of land that truth has conquered,

I become defensive

stared at me, askew

lopsided in death

with nervous lips, he said

“that’s good, now read me a poem

put me to sleep

staying awake feels too cold.”

Sixty-seven kilograms of tired flesh and blood

ready to surrender, 
to gravity and ruin.