4 a.m.

I remember dad lying

in a hospital bed breathing,

but not much more than that. 

Hours were spent watching assistants

come and go.

Televisions droned through the hallway

from other rooms,

echoing through my head

like an old movie playing at

4 a.m.

after pulling a drunk.

Rousing moans from dad

punctuate the tedium.

Sweat pools under my thighs

from the high-quality,

leatherette upholstered chairs

that only one hundred thousand dollars

of medical care could provide

in a hospital room.

Mornings

brought the same parade of people

pressing and probing dad.

Occasional visits from the resident physician

yielded timeless comments like,

“we just want him to be comfortable,”

and my personal favorite,

“have you been here all night?”

Stupid question.

After all the “outpourings” of concern

from friends and relatives

(who I haven’t seen nor heard

from since the dirt was shoveled over his casket),

their visits can only be topped

by the Sunday-after-church-crowd,

who desired only to brand dad

with their version of beliefs -

God bless them.

As they were leaving,

I could most certainly detect the pride

they felt in themselves

for their courageous visit to the dying.

And then came death.

And here I am at 4 a.m.

in the morning two years later,

listening to some two-bit movie drone on the TV,  

wondering if dad listened to the

Sunday-after-church-crowd.