The man is dying, outside my door
Slowly, inching towards death, with his time slipping away
As he visits his doctors and returns to work bloated
And pallid with fingers like pink sausages,
Skin as fragile as flower petals,
And stories of tests and treatments
And small victories
Each day alive a hard-won gain
He smiles and chats with us,
Doing his work cheerfully, moving slowly
Discounting his ominous terminality and choosing
To live with optimism for each
Small success and promising treatment
And we chat with him and ask polite, conventional questions,
Carefully ignoring the looming future.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment