The old man dying, narrowed in his mind,
his repertoire of memories declined,
clung to a few he’d regularly repeat,
launching on stories he could not complete.
He often mentioned Everyman, a play
he named his favorite, though couldn’t say
exactly what it was about. I said
that Everyman was dying and he pled
with his associates to come along,
but one by one the whole assembled throng—
as Kindred, Knowledge, Beauty, Strength, Good Deeds
deserted him—no worldly thing succeeds.
He asked, “What is it helps you in the end?”
It says, on Love alone can we depend.