who will get the mail

at ninety
they wheel him in.
having avoided doctors
and hospitals
for most of his life,
he's getting his full share
now,
at the end.
the mask goes on.
the machines whirr,
the clicking
and whirl
is a symphony none of
us want to hear.
monitors come alive
as death
approaches.
the chatter
of nurses in green
and blue,
yellow and pink,
fill the white room,
children
at his feet, like flowers
in some garden
he once kept
clear of weeds.
at ninety he's in a strange
room
with strangers.
the sea is under him.
his blue eyes
are full of fear, of fatigue
and wonder
at how quickly it all
came to this.
who will get
the mail, he whispers
worriedly through the fogged
mask, I left milk
on the counter.