We were so good at writing
When we were young.
Softly spoken under sterile lighting,
Once with more agile tongue.

What pieces of him lie
Buried by eve-soft opiate
His clouding eyes, wrung dry,
Those sharp metred rhymes trod underfoot.

His breaths gathering firm
For one last quality rhyme
A fierce mind seeking
A way back to its prime.

I heard a fly buzz when I died…
(His pen poised on pad)
I watched a swan
(I finish these lines from my Dad)

…snarl when I jibed his fish.
Then, incredulous, almost unheard.
Jibe, is that a word?
Write it down (this, his final wish).