When I hand our client the life-ending medication
and tell him he can still change his mind, but
once he takes it there will be no turning back,
he chugs down the four ounces of liquid
and smiles, his revenge against
a body that betrayed him with prostate cancer,
the stabbing pain in his bones,
the quick march to his brain. He even
grabs his Gatorade and puts a few ounces
into the bottle where the medication was,
swirls it around and chugs that as well.
Good to the last drop, he says.
 
He starts to ramble with an urgency. It’s about
his favorite authors—John Steinbeck for one—
the way he captured human desperation
in his novels, like Of Mice and Men.
He points to his books in the Assisted Living room
hospice moved him into the week before—
the apartment where he was living, alone,
so dirty and cluttered with old furniture, books,
paperwork, outdated computer equipment,
the nurse had a hard time getting to his bedroom.
He wants to make sure I take his books,
so they’re not tossed away with his belongings.
 
He begins to fall asleep, mumbling
about Steinbeck and the books he wrote,
and I imagine he’s sinking into a dream
about Lennie in Of Mice and Men—
the way his best friend, George, saves him.