by Jim Moore

Sometimes, we see death coming.

Her eyes read familiar,
Understood without the conveyance of words,
Sounds, or quizzical looks--
She knows she is dying.

I should do so well when my time comes, I thought,
Lying there patiently, waiting for the end--
For Ninety-one is old,
Quite ancient in dog years,
And how age tears us all down--
(She falls deeper into slumber).

I remember when my father passed,
I prayed for God to take him.
He lived hard and died hard,
His body, a slave to tobacco and alcohol?
I was there for his final breath.
One should be that lucky to pass on quickly.

Weeks turned into days, days into hours,
January has turned much colder this year than last,
How I long for summer and a trip north to the river,
Instead, I am here,
New life withdrawn, old life dwindling?
And I have not the will to accept it,
I find no comfort in playing God.

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