Barely breathing, hardly moving,
I take refuge in this chair each day.
Death is knocking at my door.
Why won’t he go away?
The grandkids ask why Papa Jim
Won’t ride them on his back and play.
I tell them I am tired.
Why won’t they go away?
My wife is trying to build me up,
With soups or smoothies on a tray.
I tell her I’m not hungry.
Why won’t she go away?
My sister comes to visit me.
Almost every other day.
She brings me pot-laced brownies.
I’m hoping she can stay.
(Note: stock photo – too bad.)