You remembered cigarettes
after the names for things were gone,
you still had the two fingered gesture,
although you couldn’t light it or lift it to your mouth.
The hospital let it go, in certain cases.
You clung like an injured mountain climber
gripping a ledge halfway down the face,
too weak to scale your way back up,
and nothing to ease you down.
No help coming,
couldn’t reach you if it was,
although everyone said
and they paraphrased
that bible verse about
the faith of a mustard seed
And I thought, move it all you like,
it’s still the same mountain.
But looking at you,
a painted skeleton, minus teeth
I did expect a miracle.
I asked whatever it is that listens
to prayers and pleadings
that you would notice your fingers
still clutching the shelf out of habit,
and tell them this once to let go.