Only so much we can imagine.
We nod and listen.
A door closes.
We can’t remember the beginning
And won’t recognize the end.
We slump over a computer
Keyboard and stare at the veins
And brown spots on our hands.
Won’t remember how to hold a fork
When we’re served up cottage cheese.
The last intuitive chore of our dehydrated grey matter
Forecasts a heat index that will take us.
Hallways look darkish so we stay wrapped up.
Only we see escorts and old friends dancing
Asking, “What’s the hold up?”
The family whispers, lifts up the kid’s
Drawings of green surfboards, the dog leans in for a kiss.
Our large alabaster wives stare hopelessly
Yet believe we are still mean
Enough to get up and make a mockery of dying.