The day before my father died,
a gentle nurse aid washed and shaved him
with sensitive and professional care.
Unlike his son, my father was a strong man
who never complained about anything
or ever voiced a concern for his own well being.
Despite the gentleness of the nurse aid,
I saw a single tear in my father's eye.
That tear will haunt me until
I'm finally lowered into my own grave and a day
never ceases to pass that I don't
meditate on that solitary tear
in some kind of lonesome gloom.
The day after my father's death,
I took my mother downtown to see her neurologist
because her extreme form of Parkinson's disease
was stealing everything from her:
her ability to walk, talk, to even eat.
Her very loving and kind doctor
comforted and consoled her,
massaged her and practiced
some New Age mysticism on her.
as my mother wept inconsolably
under the immense weight of grief
of losing a spouse and herself by degrees.
I continue to listen to music
and to make my way to church,
I still attempt to converse
with the opposite sex,
but there's really nothing
that means anything to me any longer.
I don't pursue any goals or obligations,
I have no real desire to bond with anyone.
I merely patiently await
for my own extinction.
1: 12AM 8-26-2016