My Dying Father Reminds Me of an Octopus

Water is the meter of how long he will live.
Except, he does not drink today
and he did not drink yesterday.
At this rate he will lay his arms to rest
soon.
How soon?
Will the bells toll for his death?
In my dreams he whispers to me from the bottom of the sea.

He blobs on his bed, seemingly dead.
Squish, squish, the arms flail suddenly,
lashing out a the nurse, the clock,
and the paintings in the room.
Kiss of the octopus, his suckers
twist and turn, grab at the coral positioning
himself among
Orange, bronze, copper, greens,
and blues.

He never says goodbye.

I want to run downhill
be squeezed and usurped in the octopus’ arms,
since his 8 arms will suffice.