Gray is the way. Huddled talk-blurbs
feed the turbine. Jockeys of opinion
hear me out, me too, me three!
Reverberating, deodorized feedback
falls heavily on the ears while
condescending peers... nod numbly.
Issues are so many blunted spears.
Bandaged egos mirror pablum-fears.
Public Servants. Resumes plumped.
Primed, pumped up, can-do? No can-do!
Anxious, holding back. Depressing
in their ignorance, preposterous
in their insincerity. The unsure
mouth puddles of muddled jargon.
A murky web of studied Non-concern.
The meeting stands adjourned. Amen!
Deep in a chemo-stupor and reeking of paint thinner, he was
Raced down dirt and gravel roads in a beat-up, old Chevy.
And rushed through the hush of cold, vaporous, night air to
The emergency room of a Public Health Service hospital. Stat.
He was lifted onto a drop cart, draped with a disposable sheet.
Panting, prone, legs dangling, ... deep in a Winter's wilderness.
The welcoming committee galloped him down linoleum corridors.
Strapped to a stainless steel Table, clad only in his shorts.
The grim covey of Practioners hovered around and over him in
A swirl of starched-Whites, tubes and shiny stainless tools.
Cutting slickly into his dormant, unflinching flesh. Stat.
Plugging up eddies of Blood Soup, patching up Framework and Hide.
Laboring over this bag of broken bones, what stays their hand?
What stays his wounded heart, his labored breath? What for?
Stat. Pump! One, two... one, two... trauma, trance, flatline.
Thirty years, over in minutes... contents Into A Plastic Bag.
The months are slipping past
The weeks are built with feet of clay
They are not made to last
The days are moving one by one
The hours push and plod
The minutes reaching out for sun
The moments touching God