He wanted that,
all summer in the hospital
a pod of machines sounding him,
pumping in, sucking out,
his legs faint ripples in the sheets.
My friend, who loved to sail
to the eye of the wind, close-hauled,
who taunted the rip-tide,
rolling with any wave who'd have him,
reduced to this puny adventure.
On the parking lot roof, I stare
at the city turned cadmium orange,
and wish he'd leave like sunset,
incendiary, streaks of fire his wake,
instead of this withering.