Mr Gibbin's Ugly Death

He was sat bolt upright,
staring death in the bony face,
his own face sucked inwards;
bloodshot eyes bulging, his huge
nose flaring, skin a sickly grey.
'Nil by Mouth' above his head.
He calls for help. Not help. Food.
The shock could kill him, I know,
but he's dying. He's dying
and we're not feeding him.

Christ had his Last Meal.
Why not Mr Gibbins?

He sucks on his straw like a starving
man. The soup goes down. I hear
it hit  the emptiness of his gut.
My hands  shake as I help him finish
his Last Meal. He thanks me and
sits back. Sighs. Closes his eyes.
Not dead yet. Just satisfied. I leave
him, hurried by another worry on

the ward. I go back later.
Mr Gibbins is cold. Dead cold.
His head is back, his tongue out,
his bloodshot eyes wickedly wide.
This is the stuff of horror movies:
the hands heavy and cold, the skin
slack like roast chicken breast.