you do what you can, accepting the limitations: clumsy, brief, almost dumb, but you were there

To visit the dying can be a refinement, the dreck 

of daily living having receded to leave 

only serious stuff, and you’re ill-prepared, 

self-conscious, and all but tongue-tied. But this is the truth 

of your lives, of both your lives, that the awkward encounter 

has clarified for you. Or reduced you to. 

You don’t want to stay too long—not to tire him out, 

or yourself, for that matter. And after you’ve left, you feel 

bad, if less bad than he, but for both your sakes, 

and wishing it had gone better. And he must have had 

such wishes, too, more general, though, and more fervent. 

But that’s what life is, and you fumble through it. 

You do what you can, accepting the limitations: 

clumsy, brief, almost dumb, but you were there. 

[David R Slavitt {1935- } 'Visiting Hours', from The Seven Deadly Sins and other poems]