hospital bed.

Beginnings

and endings come here

with nothing such as divinity

or blessed cans of oil and incense

baptizing our souls

into eternity.

Nothing but ugly, fleshy, mortality,

the decaying stench of defeated microbes.

In brief flashes

that shatter time,

years slither away, forming milky pools

of withered age at the bedside.

Medicated synapses

are misfiring,

sending mixed emotions

to the conscious realization of an end.

Ghosts of past friends roam

the space around

the body melting under fluorescent lights,

fragile remnants of pain

and joy destined to be lost forever.

dead letters for living people

    

blood sold.

Turnstiles are attached to the doors

to the home that was sold

before you had a chance to die.

     

You pay the entrance fee

to sleep in your own bed.

          

A son, an alligator with

your mother’s eyes,

waits for your

corpse to go on sale.

               

His take

of your pension

runs the show.

Spinning turnstiles randomly

keeping you awake at night.

     

Strangers go through

your unmentionables,

taking what they want.

          

Your son guides them through the house,

telling stories

about things that were supposed

to be kept a secret.

               

Money changes hands

and more of you walks out

the door without you.

Spectators throw coins and apples

at you as offerings of good luck.

     

The turnstiles turn

day in, day out.

You collect pennies and wait until your death is paid.

dead letters for living people