your bloodless forehead tips towards me
your arms too weak to support
is still the chair holding up to time
it looks like you may be not

your bloodless hands grasp a straw
too weak to raise a glass to lips
or even steady with shaky fingers
a fork, a knife, far beyond your grip

your bloodless eyes dim, then lid with pleas
remembering how their lies could cleave apart
if only some light could shine from somewhere
if only something in you could open hearts

your bloodless heart still clenches dry
but only once or twice in vain
there is not even powdered paint there
to carry oxygen to your brain

your bloodless life is as was always
only feeding from others' doorways

still the chair is holding up to time
it looks like you may be not

5/18/24