In Intensive Care

Death has come. She's of the moment,
Dressed in nurse's scrubs, she has a mask.
She asks if I'm okay. I hear the room's
Machines. They're ticking placidly.
I guess I'm fine. I saw something,
I tell her. Not too long ago, a plane
Flew by, and, as I watched, so many
Years dissolved, and I was eight or nine,
And watching as another plane, one from
The nearby airport, flew above me.
I was led away, and now I don't know
Where I live. “You don't,” she said.
She smiled at me. “I'll take you to
Where you were then, and you can
Lay on lawns which were paved years
Ago, and you can walk along the trails
You know are gone, replaced by
Malls and office parks. A ghost, you'll
Have what you had then. Now, take
My hand. Be dead. Be happy.
Memories mean more, at this point,
Than remaining living. After all, how
Can you add to life defeated, laying here?”



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 43 times
Written on 2020-04-20 at 03:10

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