They’re summoned and arrive like subjects to a monarch,
some travelling several hours to see my dying brother.

He sits, shirtless, propped up on pillows, attached
to so many tubes, blankets providing modesty,

as old bosses, ex-girlfriends, family, lots of former
colleagues, come to his bedside to pay last respects,

some more than once. His wife is chancellor, organizing
the flow as he sleeps through some, coughs through

others. Does he reminisce? He has taken charge
of his memorial service, asking those from his past

to speak and perhaps even telling them what to say.