his lips are open only
the lower half of his
false teeth in his dry
mouth i swab it bringing
back childhood memories of
Jesus on the cross, I want
to take his picture but
my camera won't pick up
his spirit hovering
soaring above his failing
body hesitant to let it go
he hears the trumpet calling
over the sound of the furnace
and the sorrowful heartbeats
of his wife and children love
pouring it's tune into the silence
some of the children still hanging
on tight to his one good leg
his picks his crusty nose like an infant
unconcerned with protocol
his empty stomach gurgles 
echoing empty, saying, "No one home."
he is flying unaided
by mortal invention
he is making his way home


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