John had the “con,” the Doctor said.
He stayed around the house and read
Most of the time or worked at such
Chores as would not exert him much
And slept on the veranda where
The Doctor thought was better air.
Each little thing the family knew
Would make him happier, they’d do.
“He won’t be with us long,” they’d say,
Then scrap and wrangle on, the way
That families do when rounding curves,
Each getting on the other’s nerves
With back-bite, spit-fire—loading full
The fleeting hours per usual.
At times of utmost unction, Bill
Would be the goat—on him they’d spill
The general peeve and blame. Bill stood
The gaff to help the common good.
One day Bill up and got the flu
And did what flu-folks sometimes do—
He died. Three days was all he took.
He lay there in a curtained nook;
It hit them sort of by surprise
To see him there with calm, closed eyes
And flowers all ’round and all so still.
They stood there looking down on Bill
And sobbed as families do when caught
So sudden like—they looked and thought
Of all the times they’d given him Hell;
And John—oh yes, poor John got well.