MELTING CLOCK
Who are we, to say what time means, to a man who is running out.
His life waxing away…once a full moon now a sliver, a crescent, a fading light.
Our voices distant… white noise, to his grief.
We buzz and hover, watching his clock.
He counts his hours by pills, and his days by visitors.
When the sun goes down, he has no peace, no sleep.
Only perpetual pain he cannot describe, as anything but sick.
“I’m not well,” he moans. “I want to cry.”
Our hero, our rock; the man who cured our ills;
Reduced to a slow melting clock…
We sit helpless. Silent. Our tears bottled up…
All he wants are his strength and dignity, no regrets.
We swallow our sorrow, to smile each painful moment
away…but they linger in his bed, mocking us, confusing us…
Over and over we say good bye, not knowing when,
the hands of time will steal him away.
c. 9/2013 Christine Wichman
Sleeping Queen Publications 