Toward the end

it's said the body can muster
a last gust of energy, show of bravura,
strength enough to spring up from bed
and hurl a chair or dinner plate
at the figure it senses is just waiting
for the appointed hour—He's the one
who must have left those piles of mud
and streaks of mildew on bathroom tile,
left clumps of hair and trays of rotting
food on the kitchen counter. He's taken
books off the shelves, ashtrays from the end
tables. It wouldn't come as a surprise if one
morning he slid a fold of skin open
and slipped a stone into the place
where the heart used to be.

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