Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Lucas


Lucas


We met one last time
before his corpse was washed. 

I couldn’t get past the odor
of medicine, the skin and bones talking
from the wheelchair stopped me cold. 

Lucas?  Lucas… I didn’t recognize
the proud man I once knew.
He said: Come, give me a hug. 
I held on to a chair worried
I’d faint, but I couldn’t betray
the hope invested in an embrace.

He found substance
in the gathering of friends.
I know because I am acquainted 
with my sins, and all the ways
my fears have killed.

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