Both Sides

The Last One


I often feel regret when writing
These things, well, I mean a selfish
Twinge comes on like how many
Times can I say I've received a less
Than stellar shake of late meanwhile
His parents are living surrounded
By what is left and what was there
And why is this the present now.

They will step onto the scuffed linoleum
Aisle of the court and watch and wait
And wonder what this changes while
That man walks in and stands
And breathes and has the luxury
Of speaking when asked a question.

My knees burn with every measured
Step and will for likely a year or more.
I will spend a tedious hour twice a day,
Stretching and pulling on the floor
As my wife sits nearby tapping deftly
Along the laptop keys stockpiling when
I'm backs and just waits and remembers

While working for the both of us suggesting
Politely that maybe I could take the dog
Outside, it might be easier than the time
Last week. I straighten slowly more
And steady slowly moving forward,
Closer further from what happened.
August was the prognosis; it is
Now September still and all she's there
When the dog and I step in,
Keenly aware if we make love she
Will have to be on top.

In bed, though, his parents know
The morning will change only
The date and the distance from
When they found out it would always
Now be different. They sketch
Their pain and continue.
There is nothing but what is left
And what will be found in time.

In time this will all have happened
Long ago enough to be a time
That was, a flashing memory
Of the closeness of ambulance walls,
The solid strangeness of tubing
Hard at the back of my throat, the four
Of us at dinner, trying hard
To reminisce without trying
To bring him back.

For the moment, we are surrounded.
They together in the knowledge
Of coping in similar terms. We fortunate
To be able to complain about the length
Of my recovery. Fortunate all enough
To know it is not over.