Last Rites

A poem about a man that visits a friend in the hospital

Last Rites

“Did you make you peace
with God?”
Your face grew stern
as your eyes scoured
the concrete ceiling.

Driving home that night,
I felt a tear
slowly trickle down my cheek
I could not shake
the feeling that I had somehow
condemned you to flames
with a single question.

And now as I help our friends
lower you into the ground,
I cannot help but wonder
from which angle
are you watching the proceeding.

Above,
or below?