Will

 

Dying hurts,

My brother  says.

 

It's not at all

What I imagined.

 

Clouds and trumpets.

Being at peace.  All that.

 

It's okay.  Sometimes

it's sunny, it's Paris.

 

Sometimes it's not.

He worries for his mother,

 

For a delicate ex-lover.

To Will his sofa to.

 

And tax returns.

Loose ends.

 

He chants it-

Ends, Loose Ends.

 

His pursuit has

Always been the truth.

 

His occupation,

Beauty.

 

Certainly,

However,

 

None of this

Conforms to that.

 

And he gets

A little miffed

At bland pasta

And cheap flowers

Dying inside

A Catholic Hospital.