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Post Mortem.

Updated on March 15, 2010

Post Mortem/Uncle Bob


An empty pack

of cigarettes,

squats on

his nightstand,
a reminder of

the vice that

gripped his frail lungs
and tainted

his last exhale.

An exhale that holds

the only bright colors

near the sheet
pulled over his head.

The drizzle on

the window looks

much like the
tears of realization

that ran in rivulets over
his suffocating face.

His lungs collapsed

without warning,

the tumors having

eaten holes in the

lower left and

right lobes 

his fist beating
on the bedstand,

to beckon my help.
His face purpled and

his eyes huge orbs

pleading, as I

dialed 911.

I vainly tried to blow

air into his lips,

which were

sucking fishlike
at nothing

till you arrived

with your partner.

All confidence

and machinery,

inserting chest tubes
to inflate each lung,

then pumpimg on

respirator bags.
but he was by then

a dessicated vacumn

and so you squeezed

my shoulder and

mumbled soft


Two hours later

after the mortician

had removed

the remains,
I followed suit,

tossing the

crumpled up

cigarette wrapper,
into a wastecan of

surgical rubble

along with the

pair of gloves you

had left behind.

One will go

off to a landfill,
and the other

will fill the land
leaving me one

relative less
from what has

always been so
lovingly familiar

all my life.

When the end came

he cried "Uncle"

and so did I.





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    • shazwellyn profile image

      shazwellyn 8 years ago from Great Britain

      Wow.. very moving. Is this poem based on fact? Did this happen to you?

      It is a sad irony that cigarettes can kill in the way that it did for uncle. And the landfill for the packet whilst uncle fills the land - really good comparison.

      Well done, this is really very good! x

    • Micky Dee profile image

      Micky Dee 8 years ago

      You have such a "grasp" on words of life!