Windblown, rain-born, mothers with children,
their aged parents, arm-hung, basket-carried, free
pedaling, four-legged, or three-legged, parade
forward shunted through electric door to doctors.
Bundled up, tied-down, birthers rush down antiseptic
hallways. Each patient encapsulated in the flow of life
or death, the infirm helpless to resist oncoming scrutiny
are side-tracked by the growing-up or winding-down ones.
Helpers like strands of DNA shuttle-cock through
arteries, and veins, dusting, adjusting, forewarning, the
pale drug-dreamers, the fever-ruddy, or bone-weary,
to the hmmm, buzz, and gong of machines.
And though, illness surfs these weakened shells, love
like a lozenge allays the advent of fear. For some
life has just begun, for most this weary weakness, life,
is a double-edged sword gifting kindness with pain.
Published November 9, 2019 on the Ancient Paths Facebook page
2019 Pushcart Prize Nominee