Your voice on the responder (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #7)

Your voice on the responder
A poignant gesture of civility
I’m busy working
While you’re busy dying
How poorly scripted can it be ?

She was busy dying too, your mother
« I wasn’t there » you said, with a sob
Were you busy working back then
Or just standing in a cold distance ?
Like we all do,
And you’re not worse than any other kid
Raised by a single child-mother

You don’t eat much anymore,
We tried everything
Easily chewable,
Fine meals,
Your favorite pudding,
But you’ve grown tired of it
Creamy pastry, something fresh and melting
Or just a bit of basic rice and soup
Please, would you ? Just a few bites.

It’s meant to get worse
I don’t resist the verdict
And I don’t expect you to
You didn’t want the chemo,
And we’ll never know how long
It would have kept you alive
Nor in what condition

Your legs won’t bear you anymore
On your bycicle they made miracles
It’s ground zero, it’s back to earth
But you’re not buried yet,
And it’s both a long and short way
That leads one to their final breath

I’m only asking you for this courtesy :
May you not go while I’m busy toiling for my own life.
It’s a bit off-topic, I know
But we’re all self-centred, when it comes to survival
Please have this friendship to me :
Don’t die alone.

A simple friends dinner (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #6)

It’s difficult to change anything in someone’s space
I only have the spare key, not the user manual
You don’t want me to clean up your mess,
Like those dirty handkerchiefs around your bed for example
Alright buddy, the privilege is yours
But do it for tomorrow,
I’d hate to overstep your dignity

Being your personal assistant is not my favourite part anyway
My secret plan was to make you have a proper dinner,
After I did the shopping, the pharmacy, and other domestic stuff.
It came a few visits later
I suggested you might wanna eat something warm and tasty,
Rather than sodas, fruits, half a cracker, or a yogurt
That is to say not much
And it was not for the cooking pride of it
Our first meal together
Would be a simple catering tray of tagine
Which I prepared in your frying pan,
Cuting the chicken in very small slices
So you might chew them easier and nicer

It was the smell of it in your kitchenette :
For weeks you’d nearly forgotten what food smells like,
What a decent meal smells like,
Taken moreover by the novelty of having it fixed for you
No dinner table though,
And I’d struggle to find us a clean knife and fork,
But here we got, sharing a pleasant dish on your desk
And although your appetite was still short
You almost finished your plate,
With a constant and extatic enjoyment,
Like someone really did you a great favor
Then you had your post-dinner cigarette
And began to tell a few stories and things,
As if having another human home in the evening
Appeared so natural

On my next visit, you insisted on how easier the sleeping came that night.
You had this custom of revisiting the whole day when your eyes closed,
And the summing up for once, had felt so much better
With a simple friends dinner.

This finally happened, you requested help (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #5)

This finally happened
You called for help.
Yesterday was the first breakthrough,
After a month of keeping your distance
And how could I blame you,
I’d do the same, if not longer

I passed my routine call in the afternoon
And you started very frankly :
« No, I’m feeling terrible »

Your first respiratory distress,
And you had to pick a Sunday.
« It’s hard to get a ventilator right now, »
Call us back tomorrow », said the emergency.

I could’t bring you more than support, for lack of oxygen,
And your voice had turned so thin, out of its breath
That almost by fatigue, you suddenly said :
« Oh nevermind after all, come if you want »

Now you looked older, weaker, closer to death
Compared to even four weeks ago.
But I was not gonna face you any differently.
Hence after a while, it became obvious
How just a little presence would stimulate you,
Make you wanna tell stories again,
About this subject or that chapter of your rich biography.

The next day I was hired for the job somehow
A request for a few urgent errands in the neighbourhood

You’d made your last attempt to reach the pharmacy in the morning,
And it failed.
But that’s alright,
I’m taking care from now on.

Don’t thank me again,
Just say you’ll trust me, and that’s fine.

And you’re still in charge of your own dying business, you know

Sorry I didn’t call you any sooner (eight days have passed) – (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #4)

I’m sorry I didn’t call you any sooner
Eight days have passed
And it makes a year at least
When they give you less than a few months

I’ve been busy
I’ve been not too well myself

You’ve had a bad night, you say
But did you have a good life ?

I did not know your mother left you an orphan so prematurely
I thought I heard you mention her presence later on your timeline
« I have no one, you understand », you said in that cool cat’s tone
To the female oncologist who follows you at the hospital
She shows empathy, complicity,
She has that little extra time in humanity

Of course she tried again to push the idea of a treatment
Now that you know the nature of your murderer :
A small cell lung cancer
But you already sensed it.
And somehow it suits you better
You don’t want the chemo
There’s not enough in your life
To make you wanna fight for a little more
And you won’t have much more
Might be too late for a short trip,
Is it too late for friendship ?
Some sort of relation
That won’t make you feel under assistance

You wouldn’t call me, would you ?
I have to guess when you need help
It’s like for most of our relationships :
We have to guess, not just to hear, ask,
And it can’t be a lousy job

I’m surrounded by a bunch of « no-hopers »,
You said also to your doctor
« Which is of no surprise, because I’m one as well »
Then in a charming line, you added to me :
« Oh but you, you’re worth better than this »

Oh no, just a piece of mess
Under a brighter exposure
And I’m sorry that it’s all you’ve got,
Without any self-depreciation :
Bar workers, unsung loners,
Underground musicians,
Real drunks and wannabe poets
Random misfits…

But hey, I’ll do my best
If this is what is left

The sound of a little hope (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #3)

I’ve heard the sound of a little hope in your tone
Over the telephone
The first random words after picking up,
They’re like an uncertain shade of dawn
And today’s not so cloudy, as it seems,
Even a bit lighter really

You rave about your new female doctor,
As if you had a date and not a biopsy
No matter how terrible the sickness,
A little crush is always sign of vitality

The way you’re explained a fatal truth
As naked and painful as it is
Makes the prospect very different
You may not be so dead yet
It will demand further exams to see it clearly
And they have this new treatment process
With only pills, to face the end more peacefully

I’ve heard the sound of a little hope
And it sets me in a great mood actually
I know you don’t expect to be finally saved
But if you get nine months,
When you were told nine weeks,
That makes a spring and summer
Enough to put a smile on your cheeks

This time you didn’t pick up <> (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #2)

This time you didn’t pick up
I left my deep baritone on your voice mail
And decided to move anyway
It was just like me after all
To prefer a chilly walk at dusk
When a rare blue sky in January
Had just happened

I was not in a particular worry,
Only a step further in my concern
I mean,
You’re just dying
It’s a day-to-day process for anyone
Only goes faster in your case

I walked along the East cemetery,
Knowing it would perhaps be your next location
But it didn’t feel such a gloomy thought
Plus, it is very peaceful in here
Unlike an hour ago
In that crowdy shopping center

This time you did not open
I saw you were home, curtains shut,
But a little lamp of your matchless design was turned on
From you desk probably

Your hands moved,
And I felt somehow reassured
Then went back to the station district
Where the multitudes of the living
Have to deserve their final rest,
And whose effort is so painfully noisy,
So constantly aimless,
That it makes perfect sense
How religions dangle the promise of eternal bliss
I don’t think you’re a believer actually,
But you have to find your peace at the moment,
Which makes a busy man out of a dying body

I knew I’d see you hopefully sooner than death.
And as I’m writing these lines,
Searching for a little human presence
On a heavy cold night,
I witness the same kind of little lamp near by the window
A message for the outside world :
I’m alive, just don’t bother me.

Oh, the bar’s already packed
With too many frenzied folks
Who have no attitude, only grimaces,
Who have no style, not anything close to yours
But these two sitting a table ahead of mine
Look so engaged in taking care of each other ;
And how they hug at the face of another long winter,
Feels right enough for me.

It’s OK,
You’re just dying.
And finishing the poem,
I realize the place is totally empty by now

It’s peaceful and lonely
A little like your cemetery.

New Year’s call <> (It’s OK, you’re just dying #1)

It was new year’s day
And my first resolution would be to call you

They’d told me about your cancer
And the very short remaining time the doctors gave you

I felt concerned, and regretful as well
That our friendship waited so long for a chance to happen

Too late was coming soon
And I just had to shake my confusion

It took half an hour to clear the smoke
Then I knew I’d heard a man yet so charmingly alive
That I wanted to visit him the next day.

Every inch of your appartment was so full of you
A baroque space of bric-a-brac,
Cheap collages made of souvenirs and diverted pictures
Set of boxes and little lamps, gracefully arranged

You made the coffee on your old gaz cooker
And we talked for a while
Mostly not about death
And very little about your cancer

I could be wrong,
But it felt like seing a longtime friend
Though we only got to know each other.

I knew I was gonna stick by your side,
Whether you’d ask me or not
And this meant until the end.

Oh, and I was strangely overwhelmed with joy.
A guilty joy.

Don’t get over

Don’t get over
Keep wounded
With just enough blood and heart
To function
To feel like you’re grounded

It’s better than healing
Cause you never heal anyway

Don’t get over
Stay within the field of fire
And if it burns you out
You’ve come too close
If it steels your heart
Your blend’s too cold

Keep wounded
We all live wounded
For most of our lives

It’s the care that matters
Not the cure
It’s the making you feel better
Not secured

Don’t get over
If your soul resists
If your mind persists

You’re not compelled to heal
As long as you don’t stain the whole river
Or make a flooding wave of your tears

So keep wounded
Feel alive,
Unrested

Follow the hand that brings direction, protection
Not the one that lends medication, salvation

Don’t get over
Keep wounded
With well enough blood and heart
To function,
To be founded.

(A tribute to) the remaining condition of life.

 

Don’t ask for life not to change
For the city not to reform
Or the people around not to evolve.

Don’t ask for your favorite places,
Bars, venues, streets,
Not to be altered, reshaped, or redesigned.

You may not like the new front, the new background
You may properly hate the kind of music they’re now playing
Or not be so keen on the new bartender, compared to the previous one.

It’s agreed,
We all knew better days, better nights, better playlists
We all knew truer smiles, deeper converse at least
And the lights were dimmer, or if harsh, felt sincere
We all knew better versions of the same bars, the same freaks
We all knew better stages of this town, of them streets.

And so you’re left with only two options :
One is to run away as far as you can
From this feeling of alteration
By breaking your habits and routine,
Or simply move to another city, to a different country.
There’s no going back to what you loved so much,
But if you can’t revive the past, at least you get a future.

Or a second way of dealing with transition,
Is to pay tribute somehow to everything or everyone you liked better
By celebrating their persistence.
What or whom was not replaced, has only changed,
Not disappeared, only reborn.
And if you continue to discern the blue print of things and people,
Of objects and places,
Then you know that the reason you’re coming back
Even ten, twenty years or more after,
Is not justified by memorial despair,
Mostly you’ve come to honour
The remaining condition of life.

And you’re so grateful to this bar to still exist,
Although you don’t expect much anymore from having there a drink
It’s not going out, it’s no party time,
It’s paying tribute.

That’s when nostalgia weighs too heavy on your consideration
Of something or someone, and you no longer bear this burden,
That’s the moment to leave or die.
But over the changing of times, one should never cry.