Exit Costs

by J. Tarwood

Dad blamed doctors.
All lies, all tricks,
he wrote, words shrinking,
saving paper. An apparatus
to referee his heart,
a rubber ball to snap
back his grip, tongue-twisters
so he might speechify
if ever in the mood.
Never bettering, he soldiered
on, sons sure he was
an old sullen fool, wife
white noise, till dying
surrounded by sterile strangers,
ghost fast spooked by the final bill.