The Decision

I.
Stop his body
in mid leap.
Hang it
where it can be seen.

Let a thousand doctors poke it,
let ten thousand vials be filled from it,
let one hundred thousand opinions be offered about it.

Leave him hanging a long, long time.
Pick low hanging fruit and pelt him with it,
laugh at him, censure him, 
explain him in front of strangers
with terms like oncology and prognosis.
Neither should sound good.  Make references 
to habits and lifestyle and such
as if he was the font of all
and suggest kids might need to speak to him
as a cautionary tale.

II.
You’re gone almost, and thank God
for that — I ask if you need anything,
you ask for it, you ask for me
to cut you down and clean you up —

I wish I had the arms to do this.
I suppose I could try.  
I’m not keen on leaving you up there
like some pinata
when God is roaming the streets.

III.
If anyone asks, 
I was in another dimension
all night.