When AAA Crematory rattled up
in a dilapidated Honda mini-van,
wrestled you onto a gurney,
zipped you in a long vinyl bag,
I nearly said, wait, wait, he’s gotta breathe
but how stupid would that have been?
Your arctic blue wrists and ankles
were adorned with bright paper bracelets
dappled with trees, birds and suns
and “GOOD BYE, GOOD BYE
WE LOVE YOU” in fat crayola.
Your grandkids taped them there
as a hospice doctor pronounced you
man without life; she lifted the long
arc of a blood streaked catheter
emanating from your groin;
and, as a neighbor’s baby shrieked,
snipped it free.