The fog licks the surface
rolls in off the water
dense as dog breath
on a pane of glass

I watch the sun come up
the stars burn out
from this bed.
Like some old robot

I am always plugged in—
nourishment and waste
plunged through IV and catheter—
every morning I read the newspaper

scan the obituaries
in search of my own name.
Every time I remember my wife
dying down the hall

I remember that I want to be dead.
My body haunts me
my bones creek and groan,
antediluvian.

My children come to visit
weeknights and weekends.
I used to tell time
by the sun on the crops,

the number of items left
on the hotel maintenance checklist.
These days I find myself
watching the clock

the skeletal arm and hand
ticking like a mechanical heart
the face a glass ribcage
like the ribcage of a deer

slowly bleeding
from a hook on the wall.