Because the dying are commonly cocooned In untainted waiting-rooms I've never smelled death in its true form Measured wasting of organs Powerless limbs unheeding of bodily requests Insubstantial skin and rheumy eyes Making me squeam In an older time or a lesser place The waiting would be unoriginal The occasion would be for re-collecting Grand deeds and lesser courtesies As I distractedly stroked your husk Because no one should die Without being touched And held or spoken to with loving words This is my terminal gift to you Because I have no other Your gift is to remind me To shelve daily observances And occasionally stare at life's rawness Because at the end The stench of dying is the only truth