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Goodbye, Grandpa
December 12, 2017
His calloused hand against mine,
Chest heaving irregularly.
White coats circling, whispering.
Beep, beep, beep, beeep,
A recognizable rhythm
Circling becomes sprinting,
Whispering into frantic demands.
Mind spinning at record pace.
“300. Clear”
Nothing.
“400. Clear”
Still nothing.
From chaos to eerie silence,
Only one discernible sound.
Beeeeeeeeep
Life has lost all rhythm.
© Robbie M., Milford, CT
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This is a personal poem.