He pulls the flannel sheet up
all the way over his head,
a purply plaid pretend shroud
very much in need of washing.
"If I can lie this way,"
he whispers, "ever so still, I might
convince Death that long-awaited
visit has come too late."
But, he's not sure how long
he can hold the pose, and then
there's the small problem of his
constant shallow breathing.
2 comments:
I love this poem and relate to it so well.I used to do this when I was a child and to be quite honest when I was grown up as well.I amazed to read this.It could be a catholic thing!
Thanks... we Catholics probably do obsess over the same things :).
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