We used matches to draw lots; who would visit him. And I lost. I got up from our table. Visiting hours were just about to start. When I said hello he didn't say a word. I tried to take his hand--he pulled it back like a hungry dog that won't give up his bone. He seemed embarrassed about dying. What do you say to someone like that? Our eyes never met, like in a faked photograph. He didn't care if I stayed or left. He didn't ask about anyone from our table. Not you, Barry. Or you, Larry. Or you, Harry. My head started aching. Who's dying on whom? I went on about modern medicine and the three violets in a jar. I talked about the sun and faded out. It's a good thing they have stairs to run down. It's a good thing they have gets to let you out. It's a good thing you're all waiting at our table. The hospital smell makes me sick. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MARY IN HEAVEN by ROBERT BURNS ON THE RESURRECTION OF CHRIST by WILLIAM DUNBAR INDIFFERENCE by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS HOOD by BARTHOLOMEW SIMMONS WHAT THEY ASK by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 45. A LITTLE WHILE by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) THE CAPTAIN by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD MAXIMS FOR THE OLD HOUSE: THE HEARTH by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |