Emaciated Compassion

You saw a picture of him five years ago
Did you keep it in a box, throw it away
or put it in a dime store frame for the top of your dust covered dresser?
Do you have any pictures, of any of your kin?
Any of us?
What have you kept? What did you stop holding onto
as you dissolved into the deathbed you use as lifestyle
Your hair waves Howard Hughes locks as you dismiss visitors
by pressing your remote—
the only thing you lift since they took your lighter
after you kept the oven on
Your grandson weaves stories out of eyebrows and forehead lines
He squeezes the noses of people he loves
His fingers will never touch you
You will not see your father, aunts or uncles in his eyes,
or in the shape of his skull
He will not ask about you nor speak your name
Would you have preferred pop-pop, papa, grandpa
or something else?
You will not hold his hand when you buy him breakfast
or let him sit on your lap as you drive around parking lots
You will tell him nothing
You chose nothing as past, present and future
After twilight, your moat of separation is built
What will you be thinking with your last breaths?
The ones no one you have ever known or loved, will witness