Like
one hand clapping
in
a darkened theater
to
the swan’s song,
Patrick
sits
at home,
alone,
and
fights his disease
for
as long as he can.
The
empty house,
far
from the streets of Dublin,
has
a hint of ghostly cigarette smoke
from
tobacco long since punched out--
seeping
out of the wood floor and paneling.
His
kitchen
is
barren
except
for a loaf of bread
and
a teapot whistling.
There
is a transparent television
he
bought for his son,
who
went to prison.
And
as he walks around,
he
grabs tabletops
and
backs of chairs
with
calloused hands,
responsible
for years of rebel wars
and
bricklaying.
His
dog,
Molly,
the
gentle boxer,
doesn’t
bark at strangers,
and
never leaves his side.
“She
sleeps nex’ ta me inda bed,”
he
says in a sweet brogue.
She’s
all he has now.
His
sons never call.
His
ex-wife
Could
care less.
She’s
already getting what’s left of his money.
They
gave him
Experimental
drugs
And
told him
He
could have ten years left
If
he takes them
Every
day.
The
P.O.W. experiences
were
recess.
The
brain tumor
was
a paper cut.
The
psych ward
was
a vacation.
The
toe amputation
was
a minor itch.
Leukemia
Could
be different…
“it’s
not dyin’ tha scares me,”
he
says.
“It’s
bein’ alone
while
ah do it.”
Molly
cups his hand
between
her paws
and
licks his fingertips
as
steam rises from the teacup.
