Mr. C and the VA hospital

He sputters and gasps like a broken down motor
His skin a tarp thrown over a rusted frame
Liver spots purple on brown paper bag skin
He is waiting to die.

He fought in two wars, now he dies in a bed
Insane, incoherent, snoring and drooling.
I watch as he rasps, coughing green phelgm onto his gown
Too proud to die, to weak to live.

"Where are my glasses," he asks
As I read over his file
(He stabbed his grandaughter two nights before)
He clutches and scratches at the air (invisible adversary).
I wonder what God has left him
Half dead, half alive, drooling from a Haldol drip.

And I watch the clock, waiting for him to stop breathing.
Wondering how much paperwork will be involved.