ILL LOOKING.

A FATHER IS DYING OF CANCER AS A SON LOOKS ON.

How ill he looked that last time.
Sitting there in that chair,
The greyness swallowing his hair,
His eyes sunken. He tried to smile,

But it dried up on the way to his lips.
Cancer came as his ill-befriended
Companion, side-by-side, gaunt,
Yellow, silent fellow. There were

Ashtrays on the table of the hospital
Guest room, stubbed out cigarettes
Laid there like false empty promises
Or broken vows. Words failed you

That last visit; your mother spoke
The most, small chitchat, those little
Insignificant things that not wanting
To face the truth brings. Death rubbed

Its icy hands in some corner, waiting
Like some second-rate act in the wings
Of life’s stage. Last words penned on a page.