When I look back, a wheezing, shattered husk
upon a bed I don't expect to quit
until my sky has gone to black from dusk,
and God Himself shrugs, saying, "Well, that's it!"
I hope that all the dreary, drudgeon days
that, while I lived them, seemed to have no end,
will dash by at a speed that will amaze
my old, drug-addled brain. And when they send
for clergy to administer the rites
afforded to the soon-to-be deceased,
my soul goes round and shuts off all the lights
in his old home--I hope for this, at least:
that at the last, I feel one warm, soft hand
in mine, and hear these words: "I understand."