by Lee Erickson
His left foot was pointing East,
East like where the sun rises.
And as he was dying, I budded.
When he died, I bloomed.
It seemed strange to see him
laying there
on a gurney
in his aged, striped,
faded grey suit.
The trouble it must have been, to dress
him and button his trousers
and put on socks and tie
his little shoes and tie
his tie
when he could no longer help.
But they couldn’t keep his foot
from facing East.
His head, wrapped in white, golden
gauze,
a kind of invisible man.
He felt that.
Invisible.
Few caring if he lived
or died.
Who wanted to see that?
was the question.
Who wanted to face the apathy?
Staring at his lifeless body,
his casual dress shoe clashing
with his ill-fitted suit, it didn’t really matter.
It was over.
His left foot was pointing East
and, in that moment of anguish,
I transformed into
a hope.
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