Arlan Hess
I always think he'll look worse
as if the deal's already sealed,
as if I could predict how much time
he has left by squinting at him.
Every time I make the drive
he's thinner than the last. This trip,
first sight, I figure five, six months.
Under the sheet he wears
a big blue diaper, gold toe socks
with his name in puffy pink ink
the laundry department wrote
on the soles so they won't get lost
or stolen. I'd like to tell him
he's got a bony ass so he'd laugh
for real, not because he thinks
he has to, it's the sort of comment
he's known for in this family,
but instead I take his right hand, the hand
he can move, and clean dried shit
from his nails, soak his fingers
in a phlegm-colored basin,
use a toothpick to scrape under the quick,
around the nail bed. He studies me,
pulls the covers to his face, mumbles
when he gets back on his feet again,
he and Gram are going to walk
right out of this place. The nurse begs,
Smile, Gene, your granddaughter's here,
so he grits his teeth as if to say,
I am smiling you sons of bitches.
Copyright (c) 2004 by Arlan Hess
Arlan Hess is the poetry editor
of the new journal Paper Street