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He’s 85 and he says he isn’t going to die.
Stooped over very badly, maybe two feet shorter now
than he used to be in his prime
and walking very slowly with his cane,
he insists on opening his own doors,
saying this while breathing heavily.
He refuses elderly care and drives a car.
He tells us he is never going to die.

Two surgeries since Christmas (nearly dying on the table);
two visits to ER this week alone;
with blood pressure so low it’s fightening,
oxygen the lowest of the low,
a pancreas with blockage, unhealthy lungs
and a heart that seems to scorn
the pacemaker recently therein inserted,
he tells us he isn’t going to die.

He says he wants to get around
to working on his beloved stained glass projects,
but they stay in his garage,
for he’s sleeping more and more.
He says he wants to write his autobiography, for
his life was fascinating; he invented things,
started up a business and had his dream house built.
Always he said he would not die.

Tonight he’s in ER having a cat scan.
He fell against his bathtub very dizzy, then threw up 
and finally decided to call the paramedics.
Doctors can’t seem to help him further.
All that they can do for him they’ve done already.
He told us lately he’s been having dreams 
about the wife he lost a year ago.
I bet he’ll say tomorrow that he’s never going to die.


(Written March 3, 2019 about a man well known by my husband and me. This year he is 86 years old and working on his stained glass projects)!

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