He’d lost some weight; his skin stuck to his skull
As plastic wrap will fit each hollow place,
And shape itself ’round all that’s sharp or dull.
His bone was now his hair, and cheek, and face.
My presence did not wake him from a nap.
I touched him, though, since consciousness I sought,
And he, still fresh within that thinnest wrap,
Was crisp like lettuce in his speech and thought.
His packaging I did not sorrow o’er;
Though frail as butterflies, he had his health.
Instead, I left, exulting all the more
Since he was in his mind and thus his wealth.
© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.