One man’s dying.
One weeps, he doesn’t want
a bed bath.
Another man’s eating,
one reads, one pees,
ten sleep, one sings.

Regrets, I’ve had a few,
but then again, too few to mention.

And I love you so,
the people ask me why.

The day is punctuated with puncturing
insulin injections, drugs, meals, brews,
toilet trips, handovers, doctors
and sighs.

The third night killed him:
throat cancer.
I’d prayed earlier: Our Father,
three Hail Marys and a Glory be.
The thought counted
but God wanted him.

Michael Holme is a 40-plus-year-old widower whose joys are writing and playing the piano. Michael’s early computing career was ruined by depression, and recently he has been diagnosed as diabetic. His poetry appears in Time Of Singing, Bluestem and Boston Literary Magazine, amongst other places. Visit his website: http://www.michaelholmepoetry.com.

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