for Jim Martyn

Our friend with ALS has moved to hospice.
Rick Steve’s tours of Europe streaming 
on the Mac, a mouse he can click with a toe.
cough machine at the ready, biPap  mask
for extra breath, for sleep, a meal pureed
to soup consistency. Time, still,
for visits, paying taxes, but I’m looking 
up communication boards for the time
when speech goes too—this one,
pared to thirty-three commands—
				  	
may there be thirty-three angels for Jim, 
wings color-coded, jerseys numbered,
to be called in for specialty plays—
moisten mouth, tighten mask, 
move my thumbs, bring bed bath,
I’m hot, I’m cold; angels of breathing,
angels of cough, angels of settling the pillow 
under his head, his shoulders, his knees;
angels bearing the bedpan, diapers,
the urinal; and send the angel of attention
to watch his eyes, fixed on number 33,
summoning the angel of the call switch
to watch over sleep.