The Last Speck
She was a husk in the hospice bed.
Her skin two sizes too large
Doesn’t shrink in a wash
Of sponge baths and spray shampoo.
ShamWow won’t clean those cloudy eyes
But maybe a little clear remains,
A spark in her glazed visage.
She gripped my arm with a veiny hand
And told me between breathless spittles
Of when her friends would push furniture
To the walls and dance a night through
To Glenn Miller’s silky brass notes
And Sinatra’s blue-eyed ballads.
Of how she was beautiful.
Of how she could dance.
The last speck of her
Survived in those moments,
Clinging to who she was, is, and maybe will be.