When Tiny died, I saw,

even at the moment of death, the sores

on his skin trying like desperate soldiers

to heal themselves.

His lungs hissed out

for new air, even as life pressed away

in a fevered moment.

His wife Shirley

touched the empty bed, the sweat,

the small flowers of blood on the sheet,

then curled up on it, feeling

that final warmth,

his large body alive in her memory

as the morticians bagged him up.

J. Pratt-Walter, (c) 8/2017