Near Death Poem by James McLain

I wait my turn, wishing here it were different.
It is not, your watch is my wait, to make one last claim
in these pale ashes..
While you sift through grits lost hominy, chuckling..
The few teeth, barren of gold, smeltzed through a
memory left ajar...I am cold in your drawers..wooden
it is so many of..stepps, grass back bare..still I look.
Your basket flows over neurotic habits, set to type to
run, you glow happy that your words stir, showers of ash..
That lay upon me..these strange smells..make me tremor..