Crossing Over

Crossing Over


It may look like there is no one here
beneath these white sheets.
Look closer. You will see
a tall sliver of an old man who
hardly breaks the swell of bedclothes
His bed overwhelms the spare
cubicle, a wretched holding cell for the dying.

His furious eyes and rude grimace long gone
Soon he'll leave these frail remains.
His weathered fingers pluck pluck plucking
at the bedclothes even as he sleeps. His
lips curl.

In his sleep, he soars with the baseball over
second base while swaying ever so slightly in
tandem with the rocking chair on the old
porch whose wooden planks groan under the
weight of too many feet.

His limbs worn and gray like the
tree limbs the forest calls down around him.
His toes turn blue to signal his flight.
Once a bold perplexing force, like the
Colorado River raging down a dark canyon,
a rebellious vine reaching for the sky.
Unstoppable.

Now, his utterances are incoherent. His
shallow breathing engaged in a narrow race
with the disappearing sun. His fluid eyes
refocus one last time. Then, like an
intrepid old boat slowly groaning out to
sea, he is gone.