These men are children
Sixty years in childhood; lined at their nebulizers
fed, watered and wiped
By the nurses.
A phones insistent ringing
Piercing
On the other end -
a worried relative
but I cannot console them
it's no job for me
What would I say?
'You can't speak to him now, I don't think he's free'
How can I tell them he's dead?
An empty bed; the ringing, on
and on
and on in my head.
But if I answer the phone,
what do I say?
'This bed is no longer the one where he lay'
The phone rattles at the foot of my bed
Sounding the sounds that thud in my head
How do I tell them he's dead?
Good poem. I liked it. I worked in a hospital once so I understand the urgency of your tone. Very clever!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Clever write, Nice way it's put together, good location, sad tale but very worth the read. Rounded off nicely with that last line, leaving one with the thought of how would one answer such a question. Love Ernestine XXX