Pumpkin Man Poem by Joseph Martin III

Nurses call him
Pumpkin Man.

Orange and bloated
Over-ripened belly,
So distended you'd think it
Might just suddenly burst.
His skin is cool and waxy
Like some perverse plastic fruit.

This jack-o-lantern with neither grin
Nor luminescent glow in the eyes.
Mouth agape, eyes staring and unfocused,
Seeing or not seeing
Dreaming or not dreaming
Only he could say
But he does not speak.

If Death has a color
What would it be?
Flamboyent red or somber black,
Or perhaps white is the perfect shade?

I see death in dull brown and ochres,
The liquid diet of the PEG tube,
Secretions suctioned from nasogastric and
ventilator tubes, or drained from Foley catheters
And rectal pouches into foul-smelling bags
Collected and saved at the foot of the bed.

So to you of great pretense
Or with no time for kindness
And even less for generosity,
Forgive me if I smile and stare
At the spot where you and I stand
Living in the shadow of the Pumpkin Man.

11/5/2004 rev 3/31/2005