Feeding Tube (Doing Good)

It's good of you to come, my son.
It can't be pleasant seeing your old man like this,
beneath this shroud, hooked up to kind machines,
and sucking breath from this oxygen tank teat.
I wish that I could tell you of
this memory that keeps on looping through my mind.
I must have been the age your son is now
when our geriatric cavy, whom I
(precocious child!) named Aurora,
finally collapsed, arthritic legs curled into claws
beneath her caramel pelt.
But still she ate, and heaved her bulk across the cage
to lap at the water bottle's metal spout.
She continued to oink annoyingly,
continued to lay her smelly pellets
in the shredded cedar. Finally, my mother said
Enough, and swaddled the rodent
in a dish towel, carrying her out
to our silver Chevy Nova.
She handed me the bundle and started the engine,
pumping the gas while I pressed my pet’s pink nose
close to the mouth of the tailpipe.
The creature trembled, breathed,
continued to live.
The pipe, rattling as it heated up,
began to shake. I shook a little too.
Eventually we switched places, my mother
trying to mask her mounting frustration.
And now, as the walls around me click and wheeze,
and the vents flood the ward with hell's cold air,
I can still clearly see that child behind the wheel,
pressing the pedal to the floor,
doing his damnedest not to cry,
and for one time in his life
doing good.