Dying grass. Yards turned brown from summer’s green. Leaves of rust, yellow, brown, and red in piles along the street. A kid’s runny nose.

You lie there in disrepair. Complaining of the cold. Covered by blankets sewn together from a grandma up north. Smells of mothballs. A fire burns slowly till it dies out, leaving ash behind. Orange embers glow.

Ulysses sits on your nightstand under Moby Dick. Pages are stained from cups of coffee. Yellowing with brown circles. Call me Ishmael. 

And I watch as you close your eyes for a final time. No noise. Your chest does not rattle. A ruddy face turned gray. You are gone. 

See you in Chicago.