So he might not feel like talking this morning.
He snores with a copy of Isaac Bashevis Singer's.
Friend of KafKa lying on his chest. A radio
plays Miles Davis" album Sketches of Spain .
The hospital smells claim the moment.

I watch him stretch he sleeps and hope that if he wakes up he feels like talking.
He has a prognosis for a fifty-fifty survival rate,
so this could be our last conversation.


He sleeps soundly while the I.V. solution slowly enters his arm.
I count the drops of fluid leaving the I.V. bag.
Outside a six floor window,
the gray sky is about to
cry.