Janie’s got cancer

won’t live long.

She’s maybe fifty.

I hold her hand

tell her be brave

sing to her.

At work

they fuss over

papers, binders,

reports, phone calls,

bus passes and why

haven’t I finished

that massive mural?

It shouldn’t take

long, just snap

out a masterpiece

already. Outside

clouds have turned

autumn and maybe

I have, too.

If I were Janie

would they hold

my hand? Walk

to the edge of life

with me? Deadlines

are for the living.

I think I am part

crow because all

I want to do

is fly.