Cradle Song

Listening
To the dying voices
He heard: over now
Over and done with
There was nothing we could do.

He turned his head
A man must be sensible
He said.

We're all dying
And each day we lose
A little flesh
Throw off a modicum of bone.
It was better that way
And in any case
He was tired of the moans
The endless bleating about insecticides.

His heart missed a beat
He counted his toes
One less than yesterday.

A man was better off
Without feet.
Besides, where could he go?

The voices continued,
Growing fainter now.
He was glad of that.
A man could take so much of people
And if they died quickly
So much the better.
He hated noise
The mindless squabbling of creation.

He looked at his hands
The stumps were dry
He felt no pain.

A robot standing by his side
Fed him through a tube.
Were hands necessary?

He was through with all that.
Perhaps
He couldn't taste the food
Perhaps
His eyesight was failing
But wasn't that as it should be?
Going back to the darkness
A new beginning?

The robot tapped him on the head
And his two eyes rolled
Toward the sewers.

He could do without eyes
He could do without the robot
He could . . .