I Won't Know Him

Even though I know him

I won't know him.

I hear he's shrunk in size

down 20 pounds

from his usual husky physique

in just a few weeks.

I hear his speech is fuzzy,

like he's high on drugs,

but perhaps that's a good thing.

He was jovial and upbeat

when I saw him last,

contemplating knee surgery

and spending the last years of his life

in Florida with his grandkids.

Instead , his years of smoking

sometimes four or five packs a day

left his body rampant with cancer.

When I see him next

he'll be in a hospital bed

placed conveniently in his living room

in Queens, New York.

The taut white sheets

light cream coverlet

and stack of extra-thick pillows

support and comfort his every move.

Alongside his bedpost

hangs the morphine drip

that he can tweak ever so slightly himself

to ease his pain.

When I see him tomorrow

this man whom I've known for 40 years

will be a stranger to me.

If only I had seen him two months ago.