They bring in the family.
Bring in the chairs,
the tissues,
the grief.
What manner is this
if not for a bed.
A coffin
to the living,
a number
on a chart.
And I,
standing here with my cart,
my wires,
my electrodes–
not here to save a life,
merely to
measure it.
Gloves snap
and slap to the floor.
Stricken faces, darting eyes
of comprehension,
find a percentage
of some
hope.
So
much
can
be
seen
between
the drip
and
the
mask. |