The following poem refers to Don Helms, the legendary steel guitarist for the late, great Hank Williams

A friend was in the hospital

Had a stroke a month ago.

paralyzed his left side,

slurred his speech,

crumpled his pickin’ hand.

He was afraid then, and terrorized today.

He accidentally overmedicated himself:

Took a couple double doses of Cumadin.

(someone said, “Blood thinner is really rat poison.”)

It nearly killed him,

Brought him to Death’s sliding glass door

We dragged him across the living room floor

The first time he came home from the hospital.

I almost had a stroke.

Now he’s in Intensive Care,

Surrounded by technology

Million-dollar machines that help us live longer.

He looked pale and gaunt,

Emaciated, defeated,

deflated.

I said: “Hey, Don.”

His 78-year-old eyes barely opened, fluttered;

He muttered something.

I didn’t catch it.

He couldn’t catch his breath.

At that moment,

I felt helpless, then guilty

For making it about me.

“A few more days

and I woulda died,”

He cried,

With all the strength

of an infant.

Machines beeped and buzzed:

Interesting numbers popped up on the monitor.

They added up to 627.

Don groaned:

“I ache all over.

It hurts real bad.

I ain’t never felt worse than this my whole life.”

Deja vu, helplessness.

“Don,” I asked,

“Is there anything I can do?”

Knowing full well,

I’m not capable of much.

He said: “Yeah, make me all better.”

“You mean, good as you were before?” I asked.

“No,” he half laughed;

“I need to be better than that!”

Right then and there

I knew he’d get well.

And he did!

He’s coming home today

After a brief stay

In that miserable place

We all visit on our way

To our next final

destination.