USA

Written on the First Anniversary
of the Death of my Mother

In every hospital room
Sits a spar chair
So when she drops by
Death sits there.

Always polite ---Never rushing
Hardly every tapping her wing,
She has time for us all.

Death mostly just drops by
Checking timelines,
She has extensive paperwork,
What with arrivals---extended stays-
And departures,

Occasionally, it is time to linger
So then she sits
Filled with sadness-
Mercy- and the offer of Grace.

Offering the promise of chaos
She knows bedpans and machines
Are as bad as disease
And
Dearth of dignity kills just as well
In this
Sterile World of antiseptic and piss.

So in the shadows she sits
Offering the promise of
Forgetfulness.
Bliss of separation from pain and hurt and love.
For love needs the most escaping
The responsibility of caring for those
Is unremitting.

Thus she is the Angel of death
She offers solace from life
And an exit from the burden of love.

Always polite—never rushing—
Hardly every tapping her wing
She has time for us all.

In every hospital room
Sits a spar chair
So when she drops by,
Death sits there.

© All Copyright, 2/21/07, David Dalton.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.