Her fingernails scrape
against the callous
balls of my feet,
searching for feeling
in an orchard of dead nerves.
She pinches
the ashy dead skin gloving my elbows;
ancient prognostications
of a leather retirement.
She cuts
my follicles drooping,
a deadly example of inanimation
delivering life,
like an unorganized stork.
She trims
my vine racing toenails,
so the her sleep with no longer
be pierced,
like a mischevious soldier's prank,
sounding reveille
at the dead of night.
The coffin we share
bekons your fleeting touch.
