"What You Do," a Poetry Post

When somebody's dying you
don't break down.

You don't cry as much as you
think you might.

You keep up laundry;
dust some;
sweep and mop or
do dishes.

You learn a lot about
incontinence supplies and
bed-ridden comforts and
medication.

You go to work wondering.

You keep looking over,
amazed at the time,
amazed at the awkwardness,
amazed at your involvement.

You puzzle about purpose
and mortality.

You fight the urge to follow others into
their darkrooms of depression.

You try to keep peace
despite the instability.

You remember everything and
nothing.

You keep fighting and you
give up.

You understand and you
don't.

You'd think you would but you
don't keep much track of
what you do with the
huge mash-up of emotions.

You just keep pressing.

You press on with the sense that if
one can keep on living
while dying,
then another can do just fine
with trying to make the dying right,
and comfortable.

And if you can't do that,
make it comfortable,
you probably just sit quiet and surprised,
wondering.

Wondering.

-T. D. James-Moss