We push a dull, greyish-white,
scored button and pause
for the chipped-nicked, creaking
door to yawn.
We ascend the scuff-scraped, over mopped
linoleum clad stairs.
Down scented strips of disinfectant,
we pass rented units filled with breathing, weathered-blotched skin.
We dispense a jelly like placebo
and try to ignore the reverberating gurgling maladies.
I place a gentle kiss on her soft cheek
and ask, “how are you feeling, Gran?”
Her withered eyes flutter open for but a second
and she smiles her last goodbye to me.
I hold her frail hand, “Go to my granddad,” I say,
“go to your Andy.”
And so she does.
Tomas Bird - Shallow Sea 2013
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