Two "found" poems.

A 5 year old boy and his Nanny

Could be any hospital anywhere,

blue rooms, white sheets,

nurses in and out, busy,

the sounds of the ill and the well,

marching or hobbling

down pristine corridors.

In one room, a small boy

short on years and height,

but long on love and innocence,

holding a frail cancer-scarred hand

of his nanny, his Alma Mater.

Nanny, are you awake?

Can you speak to me, tell me a riddle,

his silent blue eyes searching for life,

the hand moves in affirmation

a croak from an ancient throat,

yes dear, I am here, and no riddles,

it's too late for those.

A tear washes across a blinking cheek,

Nanny, are you dying?

What's dying and does it hurt?

She closes her eyes and smiles

wrinkles like ring barks creasing in age.

Dying is not living anymore, son.

A tear escapes hidden from her eye.

The boy is silent, senses the need to be,

presses her hand tighter,

runs a thumb over the back of it,

a nurse walks in and smiles,

checks the old lady's pulse, her vitals,

the boy oblivious of her ministrations,

sees his Nanny's eyes close in grimace.

Does it hurt to die Nanny?

it looks like it, I know I will never die,

because I know it hurts

and I don't like hurting. He sobs a little,

holds his chest out in a feint manly posture,

sucks in a deep breath,

But Nanny, for you I will hurt too.

Her cracked dry lips smile

a loving knowing reflection of his youth,

she remembers her own nanny then,

when she was his age, and hers was dying,

and she understood, felt a bond.

Son, love cures all hurts,

and your love is curing my pain,

easing my aches, thank you.

The boy smiles, then puts on his grim face,

places both hands over her hand,

and closes his eyes, wishing her well,

hears the sudden gasp, the exhalation

of her final long breath,

is startled, her hand not responding,

he hears the flatline

of the heart monitor,

but doesn't need it's affirmation,

just knows his Nanny is gone,

but not in pain.

An Octogenarian Muses

You dined on my innocence,

took my gullibity with your wiles,

creating the roads making the lines

of my ancient face creep closer,

you saw the smile that corrupts me,

and took your trophy, conqueror.

The plaque at your grave says Death,

yet my memory lives only for you,

for your victories over my defeats.

I see the babes of our babes,

the generations of your efforts,

the walking stick glides then,

my walking gait measured by the kisses

you planted, the scent that mingled.

I drink diet coke and each sip

swims champagne bubbles

in acknowledgement to existence,

to cohabitation in eternity,

my heart beats slower now,

ticking away until we rejoin,

epitaph to epitaph.