Gone

These “old, apish fingers,” as she
Called them once, now hold a glass,
Which quakes. She is no longer
Here. The day is night, the night
Unending. She has died. We
Knew she would, as afternoons
Of vague concern, of needs for
Naps, evolved into her primate's
Vigil in a room of tubes and
Clicks, machines which huffed,
And she, decaying, in a bed,
Unopened eyes, unable, anymore,
To put the beast at ease. At last,
A red light said she'd gone.
The fingers dropped. The night
Began, and, though her things
Are everywhere, and I still think
I hear her voice, this home is
Not ours; only mine. She is
No longer here.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 42 times
Written on 2013-11-25 at 21:32

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