Last Notes Of A Stored Guitar
Thomas talked eye-to-letters on quiet nights,
no sound save a pumping ventilator
and our erasable voices on a message board.
He talked of music, old dogs, friends,
family, women, grandchildren,
and other dreams
he would have to leave undone.
My brother eyed letters, blinked words,
and saw memories of war; falling
Screaming Eagle-Road Warrior fast
to an image of Vietnam trench graves.
ALS is no easy way to die,
deaf and still body, mind alert,
pride struggling to remain
He said a choice of battlefields
would put him back to ’69;
said at least he’d have