Visiting the Sick

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.