last week of my father’s life: an interpretation

like the hands of christ wrapped
tight around your throat

like the corpse of any politician

you notice the smell,
the shadows of crows, but if the
life was a lie then why would
the death matter?

if the days all run together
how will you pick the best one?

maybe rothko has an answer,
maybe gorky or pollock,
or maybe all they have to offer
is grudging silence

maybe words finally
run dry of all meaning

just the promise of a lot of pain
with no goddamn relief in sight