Last Meal
by Rene Mullen
He lays in a hospital bed. A room identical to each one
my stuttering chest counts down hallway after hall-
way, aromatic beeps and sound stench
sterilization between my neck hairs, cradled in my arms
a pair of clean pants, a shirt, underwear, extra warm socks,
I know his feet go icy code blue when he can’t move around
folded burial shroud
for the not yet
living not yet
coughing not yet
digging through shoe boxes for a picture for the coming
obituary not yet
two people in scrubs blur by
could it be
for him not yet
which room
is his not yet
doctor’s assistants and floor nurses
talk of time, not much
choice for dinner, call loved ones
can’t come in
nows, dusting bones, did everythings, what
of last year’s doctor’s assistants it’s just
soreness, what of five years ago insurance doesn’t
cover, Room 314.
I can’t
remember if I’m on the right floor
which floor is this, I ask
the face behind the counter—tell me
this isn’t the right room—it is.
I stop. I can’t.
I’m hungry
and angry
for letting
my body
worry
about
itself
while his eats his insides out.
A call from my mother The only nice picture of your grandfather
stuck to a faded receipt, now it’s ruined, she cries over the torn
image before her father or the hospital bills or the cancer
he’s been feeding or that nobody has room for dessert.
Legs won’t yet
heart can’t yet
I don’t want this
not yet.