Battery

Leatherman is sick; he has been coughing at night, shaking the dust in my room. Trinka brings broth

in the evening. The steam rises from the bedstand until what is uneaten cools. Leatherman only moves when

he is asleep. He is frightened but he knows the afterlife, has written about it in

those many books. Outside a boy sprays the lawn with chemicals, snipping the tops

of flowers free. I have seen the dying moment and practiced the speech. Trinka draws the blinds

so that the sun gets him going, with talk of false future like the battery he is.