His Time

His hand snaked out from under the cover Fumbling then smashing down on the alarm Coming alert no job, just doctors now Each poking, prodding, looking for his end This morning he feels his eighty-nine years Stiff joints protest as he lifts himself up Shaking cold feet searching his slippers out Protection against the cold, bare tiled floor He wonders if his wife is watching him From her billowy white cloud in Heaven Seeing his weakness, feeling his emptiness Oh, how he missed her soft touch on his head He couldn’t recall how long she’d been gone Only that it seemed like eternity No more doctors, no not today he thought As he lay down shutting his eyes once more