Like He Was Seeing God

We took Papa to the infirmary
Unconscious and fading
Like a plantain tree left standing
After the fruit’s harvest
He seemed paler and his hair grayer
Like an apparition in a vision
Like he was seeing god
Face to face, chit chatting about the weather

Maybe he won’t come back
Maybe he’ll come back lifeless
Bathed in embalmment oils
And incense smelling perfumes
Mummified in elegant robes
Cold and immortal like an effigy at Tussauds’.
And in dreams and daydreams
When the unconscious mind won’t let go