Five Days

The hum and pump pump sound
of the oxygen machine
a catheter pouch hangs on the side of the bed
the side table is cluttered with
white washcloths stacked and folded
like they belong in a spa
a thermometer also sits on the table
along with a blood pressure cuff, cotton swabs,
and those tiny blue sponges on the end
of brown sticks used to moisten
the dry cave of your mouth.
A clock measures the time
And there are flowers sent by friends,
their fragrance life-affirming.
The blinds are open so you can see
the green of the pine tree, the red of the bottle-brush bushes, and the
fountain where finches and mockingbirds bathe.

This is the fifth day of hospice in the blue bedroom

I sit by your bedside
stroke your hair, still soft—
your supple skin, still warm,
your eyes a blank stare that follows each approaching visitor.

Your breathing is like a rusty car engine,
a most unwelcome sound

until suddenly it stops

and just like that you are gone.