The Mozart Aria fills the hospital room
and Jack closes his eyes and weeps,
his thin neck and shoulders lean
into the familiar notes,
then return to stasis
as the soprano rests.
It’s the phrasing, he says, the phrasing,
using a hand to meet the crescendo,
then to illustrate the softening phrase.
He, too, is softening, the punch line
whacked off, and what remains
is his thrill in beauty.
Just ten minutes ago,
they strapped a purple band
on his wrist, DNR,
the same wrist
where so much tenderness,
so much life is pulsing.