Respects Poem by David Cooke

Her hand at the door, my aunt
said quietly: He's going
then urged me in to speak.
Why? for I found him there
at peace, beyond all need
of words or comfort.

Without will, broken,
he was propped up against pillows
and like a child had been bibbed
to feed. Sustaining nothing,
he slopped weak broth
from a bowl he could not handle.

Its warm breath flared.
It had no power that quickened in him.
I played a part ten minutes
- the quietness pounding its anvil -
and quit. My dying bones
were light as those of a bird.