There he was
Lying there
Dr. O’Hare
Looking like someone else
No one I ever knew
And I was numb
The room was silent
Or it wasn’t
People milling about
Eyes, at gaze
Tears dropping onto
Itchy wool scarves
The stench of
Moth ball sweaters
And dry heat
Touching clammy, wrinkled
Hands
A dark room in which
Flowers abound
Almost burdensome
Hours lingering
Like his disease
Forced saddened, smiles
Mortals uniting with
Souls.