He was  a stubborn man

Old man that he is,
what’s to become of him?
Solutions painful, said aloud.
Can’t they wait?

He’ll not make it alone, not likely—
stubborn man that he is.
Won’t be the same now, not at all,
Half-crippled and without her mystery comforts.

He’s got pride’s mark, all right—
Is he what he was?
Saying things without her,
whispering amidst everyday noises,
feeding illusions— faster than carnival shell-gamers.

Pity now looks at him that special way
during dark hours of shrouded embrace.
Pretended sleep…
he pretended, they pretended—better that way,
life’s insinuation of itself, perhaps?

He knew hovering to watch death.
He’d done it,
watching, watching—her shadow swirl.
Wonderful, mysterious, soaring, roaring, diving
for who’s sake? or is it for the sake of whom?
He did not want others watching, watching…
stubborn man that he is.

Breath blowing whippoorwill sounds calling, calling
for the human heart in his house.
Board for board he knew its timber,
heard the voices, walked its walls.
In blind darkness he would go to her bed,
he liked answering calls.

He opened his lips, a pause of silence…
watching, watching – “Let me. She needs it.”
He was a stubborn man.
No, not this night.