of my Grandfather as Cerberus
He has watched so many of the dead
slink sleepily past him, grumbling
to himself in his grey-stained voice and has not followed,
rooted to his chair, later the needled
drip: in the Lethe of morphine sometimes reciting
as blue machines echo
his ventilated slow whine of return.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Cameron
Clark would be pleased to hear them.