hospice

A grandiose bed in the middle

of the living room, left no space

for anything except the elephant of death

and all the tubes and machines that matched

the ragged rhythm of your breathing.

The faint smell of cigarettes rolled across

the air as you spoke in a feathery whisper.

Sweet, soft, see-through skin barely

covered the bones and sickly veins.

There was still a twinkle in your eyes

when we said something witty for our age.

Your daughter tried to joke about when you said

“I’ll give this to you when I’m gone.”

Then the day with the tear-stained grey t-shirt

and endless amount of hugs.

Even the shoulders that were meant for crying on

drooped in despair and longing for just one more day.

But even then, there was the smell of cigarettes,

so much sweeter now to our noses and

the paper dolls you used to make still danced.