No Forwarding Address Poem by Glen Kappy

He's dying (as we usually say) —
stage four cancer in his bones—bedridden—
neither oxy nor morphine can stay his moaning—
but he's still not ready to let go—
or so it seems to me.

If he could hear me now
I'd tell him of the once Mrs. Hanks
her waxy upturned face in the open casket
but the animating spirit—the real her—
gone—flown—off into eternity.

Or of Mary O'Connell—
her spirit and mind unchanged
but her stroke-struck mouth unable
to correct what her ears were hearing
in the damaged dwelling of her body.

I'm convinced a place awaits
for I have known and know in this present
the One that speaks, forgives, comforts…
For me it's proof enough even if like all of us
I cannot give a forwarding address.