Death of a Poet

The book in my hand - his book -
dropped into the cold, metal trash can
outside of the intensive care room.
I did not want to be reminded
that the man who wrote so vividly
from a web of clear imagination
was the same creature caught
in a tangled mess of tubes.
The caged creatures he set free
in every one of his resplendent poems
had all come back, now, to haunt him.

At first, I thought he was invisible -
or, perhaps better (for him) - already dead.
There was no real mass lying on that bed -
just some rubber, lifeless doll:
the kind little girls enjoy dressing up
while serving them tea and crumpets.
But then the doll opened a caked, crusted eyelid
(only for a fleeting moment)
and I choked back a scream
that threatened to overpower my tightened chest.
I almost thanked God when it closed again.

No words - not even from the best of dictionaries -
could describe the feelings in my heart
as I grasped his hand for the final time.
The fingers that brandished many a pen
were now limp, inanimate stumps:
unable to even lift themselves
for a helpless, uninviting wave.

A plastic robot, stuck down his throat
helped pump oxygen into his body:
a body too worn out to do it on its own.
His breathing formed a pattern:
almost a hypnotizing form of meter.
It startled me, and gave me jolts
all the way down my spine.

Even the nurses had overlooked him.
My being there, in this room,
was the only reason the life support machine
had not yet been disconnected from the wall.
I could not comprehend this;
but maybe that word, "comprehend,"
is a verb not used in hospital rooms.

I moved away from his bed,
desperate to find somewhere to escape:
a blueprint of this spinning, twisting room
had to be tacked up there somewhere.
Everything grew bright, and then hazy.
The stench of urine overwhelmed me:
let loose by sickened souls too tired to care
what they were doing right anymore.
It covered everything - the floor, the bed, my hands.
"No, Jesus, no" was the only phrase
I could commit to memory.

Without another word, I stumbled;
stumbled and swayed, tumbled, fell
out of that twisted, retched cell.
My footsteps sounded like moaning ghosts
as they squeaked on the tile floors.

I thought I was prepared to say goodbye
to a dear, true friend of mine.
We had shared many poems together
while sipping coffee at the local Starbucks.
We had discussed wives, children,
careers and politics.
But the empty form in that lump of sheets
was not my friend.

Not even poetry can do justice
in describing the cowardice I felt
as I traversed out of the hospital.
The bright sunlight struck my face
like a slap straight from God.
I took it, and begged for another.

I knew some grieving family member
would pull the plug
on that ghost formerly known as "human."
After all, would good would he be?
The grocery stores were not in short supply
of frozen vegetables.
He would never be able
to hug and kiss his wife or children.
He would never be able
to compose another verse again.
He would never get one more chance
to earn that Pulitzer Prize.

And as I sped away, tires squealing,
to go home to my realm of sanity,
I knew I would never be the same.
Perhaps he was not the only poet
who had died, after all.


~J.V.Harker~
~Tuesday 16 June 2009~