This summer, I have great plans to write. I want to really start working on a book of poetry that I have in mind that I’m thinking I will self-publish. Anyways . . . . I wrote a poem for my Grandpa Morris. He died of cancer when I was 20 years old. This is the only digital picture that I have of him and it isn’t a good one. I scanned it in.
My Grandfather
died in hospice
doped up on morphine
to counteract the pain of
stomach-liver-lymphoid-intestinal-brain
cancer.
He was numb to the world around him
drooling on his pillow.
My father patiently
fed him ice from a cup,
waiting.
For that last breath
to leak out of his lungs.
For that last beat
to pump that last bit of blood.
Until eventually,
with the window open,
his spirit said upon the wings of a dove
to the wide open
cloudless skies.
