The Gurgling Sound
It’s too late when they make that gurgling sound.
Apologies — promises of carefulness to come — ring hollow.
Nothing comes after the gurgling sound.
Not for them.
They’re too weak to curse you,
that you have seized their last moment of helplessness
to have a final word,
to present yourself as gracious,
when your heart is bidding good riddance.
Now you will have the other half
that their existence had withheld from you.
You are not kind from sorrow, but from happiness.
God hope that before they squeeze out their closing breath
you do not discover that your wallet is missing,
or your ceramic angel is broken,
or the rain has ruined your Saturday.
If you do, they will die with the burden of your blame on their shoulders.
And God hope that they hear you when you complain,
lest you damn them for gurgling too loudly.
When loved ones gather 'round you, you will cry.
It is the seemly thing to do.
When you go home to pout that life is so unfair,
you will blame the dead that dust is gathering
and trash is piling up.
So pitiful is the condition when saying “I love you” is a cruelty.
It’s the gurgling sound of an uncaring heart.
Even the truth itself is cruel — you never knew the one you never loved.
