Visiting the Sick

Greg Johnson

We were never close, but still I asked
to come, and self-conscious with flowers, I bring him
from the verge of sleep. He doesn't ask what I'm
doing here, doesn't bother to interpret
this last, or next-to-last, or whatever visit
my pitiful half-hour might mean in the final scheme
of his life-a blessing like a last, bright bubble
of consciousness, or an ironic closure too droll
for words, or just one more bitter pill. Yes,
he's dying. I'm not naive enough even to think
I really came for myself-as an acquaintance will say,
nastily-or that dying ennobles anyone in my eyes.
Unthinking, awkward, I'm just here. I draw
blinds when the sun, approaching his eyes,
flattens and cools in lengthening stripes. Pour
water, should he wake dry-mouthed and confused.
With a towel, touch his forehead so, so gingerly.
The mums look cartoonish and hideous on the sill.
Leaving, I glance in the mirror and glimpse far less
than a ghost, my good health rude as a shout.
Forgiving, more than forgetting, he sleeps
or dies or sleeps while I flee.