Death Bed Conversions Poem by Francie Lynch

Once the fee fie fo fum bullshit
Stopped, he was small,
Lying still,
Eyes and lips glued,
Orifices finally stuffed.
What would a priest do?
So, I stretched my hand,
Ritualistic-like,
As a benediction of charity,
An attempt.
I should've worn a soutane,
Perhaps used a kneeler,
But suplication ended.

That night, I looked
Beyond the moon
To starry clusters of ka-boom,
But nothing.
That sealed it.
Death bed conversions
Don't move me;
Death bed confessions do.
Ah, still nothing.
Forgiveness has
A statute of limitations.