On Dad... On the eighth of the eighth, eight long years ago My Dad died; a death, that was painful and slow A lifetime of smoking had not served him well He spent his last days in a morphine blurred hell Folks always cite the good, as they rosily reminisce He was kind, she was loving; they were this, this and this Loss does that, I guess; makes you seek out the best But, to be fair to the dead, do we block out the rest? Dad was ill, sick and weak, for decades before A body ravaged by nicotine and toxins galore Wheezing up stairs, yellowing eyes, hacking up phlegm; a sorry demise Hed put on a front, Its nothing, Im fine His hands still shaking, as he rolled the next bine Rizla and baccy, a skilled hand would turn Then out came the lighter; burn, baby burn Smoke in the bathroom, smoke in the car Copper stained fingers, lungs full of tar New holes in a belt, tightened like a noose Legs like twiglets, sallow flesh loose The imperceptible creep, as the big C wormed in, Tumors growing deep, deep under his skin Into the hospital, blood tests and charts Ones growing quite fast and crushing his heart Moved to palliative care, a new term to me Is that good? I asked, nurses eyes averted, the truth I could see Eyes set back, skull showing, skin opaque A great man fell, no way to keep him awake The eighth verse of eight, the story ends here I do miss him still, but I must make it clear If Dad hadnt smoked, hed be a Grancha today It would have been the best, but he got taken away
Posted on: Fri, 08 Aug 2014 07:51:19 +0000
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