Deathbed

by Russell Rowland

I said goodbye, left Don to his dying.
Outside, a black-capped chickadee
lighted on Don’s clothesline,
maybe four feet from my head.

I paused. Each awaited clarity
from the other, against that white
backdrop farsighted winter days
provide for a meeting of minds.

How do two lungs know when
to quit?—that one from me.
How do cells decide their work
is over; who tells them well-done,

friends, now call it a life, turn off?
In what order do lights go out
along brain-corridors? Who keeps
the archive of expired hopes?

If pacific, charitable people die,
to whom is their pacifism and
charity reassigned, and which
department is in charge of that?

The chickadee put in a chirp:
Dude, where is my birdseed?
In ways particular to each,
we had started missing Don.