Portrait 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, tight-

rooted to his chair, later the needled
drip: in the Lethe of morphine sometimes reciting
their names

as blue machines echo
his ventilated slow whine of return.

Cameron Clark

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Cameron Clark would be pleased to hear them.