Kersh
Flickering hazel eyes flecked with cataract silver, glittering this way and that.
Eyebrows high and a piercing pupil saying
'Move this ing thing, lest I punch my left hooded, binded fist a jab hand on these tubes'.
'Zip wire that gagg, tie and choke my goddamn breath'
'I will pull them as a hook on a stuck fishing line and retrieve the barb, bloodspattered, and bubbling.
Frowned lines across forehead asking 'Do it'. 'Do it'. 'Do what I ask '.
So we do. It seems a simple task to give a unanimous verdict.
The intrusive, plastic, invasive chords are cut, pulled like black vine from flower beds.
Then you snore an old bear.
The glove is off. You relax into your last sleep.
The effort to squeeze those exhausted ribs, carried by anaesthetic buzz is cotton buds and breezy, easy.
Between the bright blue curtains someone's shouting 'Kersh come on we've got one waiting for you'.
Others talk of apologises, welcomes, pats on the back and loving arms.
A pallor comes and little marks underneath the eyes. You lay asleep. No breath. No pain.
In this dark December night your passing saw rock and roll change into a summer of love, then fall into an Autumn of jazz and horse racing.
We three saying farewell, wondering if you want us there or not?
But we know beneath our bludgering feelings of denial.
The familiar ties that span a lifetime make the fit right.
And in our jangling, bangling, tightweb, we hold you and wish you a safe journey Kersh
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