the hallways he walks
are the same.
The doors are
almost never closed.
All of the people
behind the doors
are different,
though they are
all ill.
Today, among others,
he will visit Mr. Ryder,
who has journeyed
beyond comfort
to a place
of resignation
not without pain.
He is a tall man,
lanky, wiry, strong,
like he imagines
Mr. Lincoln would
have been.
But eloquence has fled
from his bed
and from his lips.
He moans in agony
from his bones
to his mouth,
his skin drawn, ashen,
jaundiced, and thin.
All of his bones
feel like they
are breaking.
None of the bed frames
are long enough
for his body.
His bare feet jut
beyond the covers
and the frame.
They seem very lonely
and cold on their
final supine journey,
all the new places gone,
and the old ones forgotten.
He will bathe him
with sweet warm water,
paying special attention
to his feet,
which he wraps in long
towels when he is done.
He whispers apologies
and love as he gently
and slowly helps him roll
from side to side,
causing untold miseries
because the sheets
must be changed.
He never wishes
anyone would die,
but he wishes that
all of the pain
would cease,
and that his hands
could heal the
ones for whom he cares,
the hands he uses
to wipe away the tears.
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