the soft parade

old,

they no longer 

greet you at the door.

she's hooked

to an oxygen tank

he's in his

pressure socks,

locked firmly in place

in the bed chair.

they move, but don't

stand, instead reach

out an outstretched

arm to find your hand.

tea, crackers? they offer.

gin?

every thought is on their

tip of their tongue,

going unheard.

it's the longest hour

of your life.

you can smell death.

smell

the freshly dug earth

of their grave,

the flowers. you can

almost see

the soft parade of mourners

seeing them

to rest.