Closer
Stacey Z. Lawrence
​
June
We always take the furthest spot, eager to walk
the flat expanse of Sloan Kettering’s parking lot.
On occasion he smiles in these first days
swollen with hope,
late June sunshine on his shoulders,
the Dogwood just in bloom
browning white petals on the pavement.
 
August
Hot, he waves a limp wrist
motioning me to park nearer.
The tree is laden with green leaves now,
people walk, wipe sweat from eyes.
His clammy hand clenches the bag he still carries
relentless Jersey humidity further stifles his breath .
 
November
It spread
hip, kidney, bone.
The cane hobbles him from car to front door
where a lobby is filled with mums and pumpkins.
His wool cap fits loosely now, his face still beautiful-
chiseled, sunken. His sweater
slips off his back, a skinny boy
in daddy’s clothes.
 
February
The wheels on his chair thin, snow
deep. Met by a shivering nurse,
sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup. He
places it on the sidewalk
reclines the seat
worries him out of our car
like burnt bread, fallen too deep
into the toaster.