In Loving Memory

It was a little bit past seven
when I walked into his room;
the lights were off, the drapes were pulled,
it looked more like a tomb than the “home” of my beloved.
But here is where he waited.

What I could not understand
is why he would be here and not at home at rest with me
where I could hold him near.
But this is where he waited.

Oh, they knew him at the hospice,
at least, they knew his name, but I was his “compadrè”,
their love was not the same.
Yet here is where he waited.

I opened up the curtains to let some daylight in,
he sat up, looked at me, then said with a grin, “Mì Compadrè!”
His voice sounded so thin,
so tired of waiting.

He motioned me on over,
so I sat down by his side, took his hand, stroked his hair,