The Last Room
March 2014
My father died in a place of medicine
In some misery but without fear, rather
A rushed responding to those
Who have seen death so often
That the coughs they make
Behind closed palms sound clinical
And antiseptic. He left the usual
Treasure chest of war medals and grieving
Women, perplexed children grown tired
By the burden of carrying their moms
And dads into death and…