New York: St. Vincent's Hospital

By E. Ethelbert Miller

At the foot of the bed

I watch Marie and Enid hold your hands,

touching you for the last time.

You are the first person I will see die in a hospital.

Your body warm, your skin smooth and wonderful.

You were always concerned about how you looked,

especially your face. Even now you are handsome.

How funny to see you at peace. You were always in bed

sleeping or watching television. Whenever I came to visit

you were in the bedroom listening to your own heart beat.

Occasionally you would rise and talk with a visitor, but

this was only occasionally. My memories of you are like

tonight. The quietness of death is a predictable conversation.

I can't believe you are my father, that the tubes removed

from your arms were as life giving as your blood. I feel like

a stranger before you. A man left with two women, a

mother and sister. I cannot comfort them. What could one

say that would caress? What words could open your eyes?

*   *   *   *   *