17 Minutes

17 menacing minutes until the end of visiting hours.

You are still like a Buddha in infinite piety,

As the collage of antiquated systems erode.

Machines —

hooked up like diagnostic tools in a mechanic’s shop

                                           — give off warning lights,

Continuous flashes and sounds beaconing

Calls of distress,

S.O.S, Mayday, S.O.S.

Angels who hear death’s rattle and hum,

Come near, due date in hand,

The primordial covenant embedded,

Life’s plight.

But you’re rooted in me,

Your unfinished business,

Expiring flares and refusing to let you go.

 

hospice2

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