Flowers On The Highway
It was too late, the unclean spirit had entered his body.
The garden of truculence had long been planted.
Flowers blossomed and the blackened foliage had overtaken his lungs,
roots burrowing and coiled deep from within.
Up and down, our eyes traipsed the lines and dots on the x-ray screen.
All of the oxygen had suddenly been pulled from the room.
Everything went blurry, it almost felt unreal.
On the way home, we sat silently.
No one muttered a sound.
The only noise we had to comfort us was the radio.
I still recall the song playing, it was Elton John's "Tiny Dancer."
I knew there was wasn't much time left.
We avoided mentioning the inevitable, that he was dying, infused with a voracious Cancer.
Months went by, glaring at the clock.
So much time wasted.
Many good years poorly spent.
The chemo knocked him down, he was more broken than he was bent.
His flowers began to slowly shrink.
Some withered, some died.
But not enough to change his outcome.
His story had came to a close, we met his untimely ending.
We put on our best black and gathered around him for hours.
Though he never cared for them, we bought him an excess of flowers.
I still have a few of the artificial.
I keep them in a vase on the bookshelf.
Back to earth from whence he came.
I went and visited him today.
"Hold me close, tiny dancer.
Count the headlights on the highway.
Lay me down in sheets of linen.
You had a busy day today."