I often think of you and your last days here, finally beaten
by cruel cancer as it weakened your bones and your will;
I wonder if the Keres clawed at your stomach whenever it pained you 
to move from your bed to a chair because you found it hard to sit, 
the only way to avoid any pain was to lie lifeless
which you were; one step was all it took for you to hurt 
because of the clots in your swollen legs; lay still—it will pass.  

How often will I have to see the Keres, violent spirits of slaughter,
illness, and death, come for those I love—why can’t Thanatos, 
god of painless death, come instead? What I would have given 
to see you smiling, like that night you were drinking red wine, 
singing Popeye the Sailor as we walked the dog twice around the block;
I wonder if you argued with Kharon after the Keres 
dropped you off by the boat—you never were one to simmer in silence.
 
But I am not always sad about you going, I often hope that
someone holds your hand tight as you wander through Hades’ realm;
I hope you entered Paradise or charmed Elysium, and I know that
when I walk through the cemetery looking for your name, 
I will find plastic flower vases instead of the statues and art
Hades would have glimpsed, but a grave is a grave all the same,
and that is why Hades will always remain the least changed.