Hospice, Daniel Patrick Sheehan (December 2025)

Hospice

When my own time comes I hope they put me
In the same room. You couldn’t see what I saw –
The interstate winding into the hills,
With soft clouds hovering above it.
Every dusk, as the taillights started to flare,
I imagined it a thread out of folktale
That would lead you into the dreamy West
Where we told you everyone was waiting.
For what man in his dreams hasn’t driven
A fast car into the almost-darkness,
Knowing that all who matter are gathered
At the edges of a twilight bonfire,
Praising without end that laborer
Who laid down the highway and wove the clouds.