Palliative Care


Death’s a mess.

While waiting around

it’s all around.

Time collapses in on all of us.

We always know what time it is,

from clocks, watches, and radios,

TV, songs, and now smart phones.

If we lived in prehistoric times,

or as members of an Amazon tribe

apart from all other human intercourse,

we might live shorter lives

that might feel longer,

every day the same day.

Unknown to us how Christmas crowds

the Fourth of July evermore.

Without mirrors we wouldn’t see our

transitions into different persons,

except through the gentle, pitying

expressions on our children’s faces.

What little  they do know.

It’s a mess, I tell you,

cyborged with plastic piping and opiod

progressions, telltale klaxons of

what we know is happening.

No, better to go off gathering tree leaves

to eat beneath the tropical sun,

sitting on our loincloths ‘til

Surprise! Our lives are done.