Étiquette : poem

Hobo

What makes a man seem more like a hobo ?
What first impression of him who you don’t know ?

Is it the clothing, the hair, the face,
Or his backpack ?
When you may not see him beg,
What tells you of his lacks ;
If he’s using both his legs
And isn’t truly marked… ?

Is it the walking, the look, the pace,
Or his manners ?
When you may not see him stand,
As we mostly pass him by,
And not waving up his hand
At one with a suit and tie…

What makes a man seem more like a hobo,
What observation, clear, that will lead you to know ?

He was sitting on the terrasse yesterday,
Sunburned in a too obvious way
Still you’re never quite sure he’s a vagrant

Now he’s staying on a bench, at a length away
Is that how he looks a little more astray ?
But you’re never that sure he’s so errant

What makes a man seem more like a hobo ?

I realize he’s not talking over his phone
Yet his expression tells you so
He has that conversation all alone
At least the sign of a life weirdo
Or only what it seems from my window…
And who’s the guy, I wish I’ll never know.

(Painting : Edvard Munch « The night wanderer »)

First-degree murder in poetry

—

The only shock is that you’re still not dead
The only shame is how you keep your head

For what you did, you should take more than threats
For what you said, your blood it must be shed
The only shock is that you’re not dead yet
The only shame is you’re not full of dread

You keep insulting whom you never met
You keep injuring those who need respect
How can it be that you’re not dead right yet,
When there’s so many of us you neglect ?

You keep agressing whom your laws affect
You keep arousing who your throne rejects
The only shock is that you’re still not dead
Oh what a shame, if you’d conserve your head

I wish I didn’t have to write these words
I wish I didn’t have to rhyme these terms
I wish I didn’t want you getting killed
I wish I didn’t pray you lose your shield

You made a surly person out of me
You made the citizen your enemy
I wait for one who’s even more angry
To give you murder in the first degree

Let’s keep it second as a poetry.

A rainy Sunday at the morgue (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #11)

A rainy Sunday at the hospital morgue
Is the reason for dark humour to exist

I wasn’t required to stay the whole morning and afternoon here
It was only a question of maintaining a presence for any visiting mourner,
Except no one came.
There was supposed to be a bunch of people showing at 4pm,
But they neved did
And the morgue would close at 5.00 anyway.

No coffees and cakes in here.
It felt more like an east-german recruiting office,
Where the applicants are the grieving families
And I sat in the waiting room for too long over my cell phone,
Dealing with the announcement of your death,
Anticipating the following procedures
And having only slept four hours in three days,
While you gently rested in your death chamber…

We had to take a little break from each other, I’d say
I was your first visitor anyway after they moved you here
And you didn’t seem to have more conversation today,
So I left when I realized I’d spent almost an hour
In such a cold and grim space,
_ Looking more like an autopsy room,
And I was gonna start making calls in a funeral home…

Forgive the humour too.
Seemed like the only available drug in a morgue
I asked the intern at the reception
If there was any place to eat over the whole site.
Not on Sundays alas,
And even for the morgue’s medical staff,
Direction told’em :
« The dead don’t eat,
Why should we deliver food ? »

Forgive my hunger as well. Privilege of the living.
By the way, and for what it’s worth,
You look alright as a dead man, really.
A little stern maybe,
But surely not scary or like you suffered a lot

That being specified,
I’m gonna go home now. I’m so exhausted.
I just wanted to see you for five minutes more.
But this is not farewell
Two group visits confirmed this monday,
We’ll have to talk funerals and other post-mortem issues
Of course you never took a moment
To properly write your will down.
If only you hadn’t been so quick to let yourself go…
But that suits you perfectly well, I guess
To make a last mess of your death

Excuse me again for not crying
Maybe later… Maybe never.
Doesn’t mean I love you any less

You were not much of a weeper yourself,
So I presume you understand

Take care of your soul now.
And we’ll take care of the rest

Can’t blame you for being dead (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #10)

Can’t blame you for being dead, I suppose
That was the plan after all
You’ve chosen a Saturday night
But that’s okay,
I wasn’t gonna party anyway

I guess we feel it coming, we humans
And I felt like staying,
Even past visiting time
No one that told me to go,
As if they knew as well

I finally sat down at your bedside,
Holding you with my both hands
Singing a few lullabies
Like one would do for a new-born
Only very mature

Then it just happened.

The near-death breathing is like an old vintage clock
And your ticking was so regular the whole day
It only took a few misses to suddenly make it stop

As for the companion in the room,
Things don’t change that much really
I stood the same position
Until the night shift made their appearance
In a very light pushing of the door.
I gave’em the sign it was over
And waited another half an hour
For the intern to certify death

The body temperature drops very slowly
As long as you keep your hands on
It’s like a bath getting cooler, degree by degree
And you know you have to leave at some point
But it’s colder outside

Your face is quite relaxed
It looks in peace
You’re almost the same
Only not breathing anymore

And I really don’t feel like crying at the moment.
You wouldn’t want me too sad, would you ?

But they already have to cut this brotherliness cord
Between you and me
So I must leave the room
While the nurses follow their ritual
And when I’m back it’s so different :
You’re now a lying corpse
Lit by a tiny candle that’s braving the fresh air
From a slighly open window

You’re set up for the night, my beloved stiff
And I felt ready for another vigil
But with the growing cold and my empty stomach,
Having really nothing else but an armchair to crash on,
I realize it turns pretty creepy for a noble gesture

I have to make it to the last subway
Try to sleep, even for three hours
Come back at 7.00

We’re not done my friend,
Rest well.

Coffees and cakes on the house (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #9)

I must be on time for the gig
Which leaves me about an hour
In the palliative care unit
And I took the wrong turn from the subway
Like it wasn’t enough of a tight schedule

This growing haste before I enter the room,
It’s a bit of apprehension, and a bit of missing you
You’ve got me pretty addicted, you charming cancer-boy

We’ve had quite a long and heroic trip together, haven’t we ?
Transferring you from this bunker of yours
Way up to the fifth floor of medic town
In one of the best service you could ever ask for…
Hey, that was neither anticipated, nor even planned for yesterday.
You just decided you had enough,
And told the nurse who was visiting you.
But she could not wait for the ambulancy
And when I called, you didn’t want me around, remember ?
I found you completely dazed on your bed, almost naked,
Talking to yourself
I just wonder how you were gonna let the paramedics in,
By telepathy maybe ?

But don’t worry about this,
We made a pretty great duet together
For the rest of your emergency tour
I saw you restore every color of your being
For just a few hours, that was fantastic
The humour, the comraderie, the style,
As the friendship
And this droning memento mori above our heads
Above yours indeed.
We both understood it was the last step
And what a true relief that I could help.

So now you’re just sleeping ?
I knew you probably would.
That’s fine,
The families’ space nearby
Is such a haven to me,
So quiet, appeasing
No one around, mostly.

And it has a free coffee machine
With a few little cakes available.
I must confess I’ve had probably half of them
With two or three black coffees
Just pouring another hot one over the previous getting tepid
I knew I wouldn’t have time to eat,
So it did for a lunch
Then I sat there, networking for a while,
Dealing with a few urgent points about the gig.

Finally a nurse told me a word about your condition today
And your sleeping,
Which is not really « sleeping ».
« You hear his breath ? It’s typical of a dying person,
It won’t last very long »

So you’re not waking up anymore ?
Not even goodbye,
Not even a half-conscious smile ?

You gave it all yesterday, I guess.
But man, I took a serious blow
Right when I thought I could easily spend a few visits more
And grab coffees and peacefulness on the house

I had just left a funny note on your bedside table
That you’ll never read
Could not assume it would go that fast.

And fast should I go myself.

I have to work, sleeping beauty
So don’t die tonight, please
See you very soon

Never heard you groan like this (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #8)

I’d never heard you groan like this
It used to be an almost peaceful lamento
Only troubled by a sudden brief eructation
Then a sharp spitting
And then back to conversation.

For about two minutes on the phone
The moaning grew intensively
Changing into an always higher peak
Of manifest suffering.
I waited for the distant sound
Of your liberating sputum
But it wouldn’t come.
And I stood there at my window,
Shocked and fascinated
By this raging wave never coming down
As the seconds lasted longer
To the violent noise of your spreading cancer
But it didn’t scare me
I just wasn’t too sure
How serious it might be, not seing your face.

« Dead serious, man »
And still, that boiling bluesy voice
Resonated so powerful
That I wanted to record it
It was regular, almost musical
Were you trying to shake me,
Or repel me ?
It wasn’t like « leave me alone »
More like « remember this groan »
I think you were trying to wake me up
And I needed this
You called me back five minutes later
As if nothing happened,
Rational,
« You can come by later, even with the doctor around »
Death is never too considerate,
But you are, my friend.
See you quite soon.

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.

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