Bush Doc Poem by Morgan Michaels

'A friend of yours'?

'No', he replied. 'I was his bush-doc'.

Her nod acknowledged the role's unsung merits.

'Any family'?

'I don't know'.

She mulled the dead man's dearth of obvious attachments. Dissatisfied with his ignorance, she continued.

'Did you know him long'?

'A few months. That's all'.

'The chart will give a next-of-kin, she noted.
'Sure. Good Luck'.

'Don't you want to see him', she asked, as he made to go.

She sounded surprised.

Miggi didn't especially want to see Geronimo. He had that slightly sick feeling you get when you try to do something good and it turns out bad.But he thought it would seem heartless, not to. He didn't want to shock her, since she thought she was doing him a favor. He wanted her good will, for some reason. So he said 'Ok'.

She nodded toward the half-closed door.

'Watch where you step, though', she warned..

With that advice, she returned to her inventory.

He pushed open the door and entered the room. There was not a soul inside. Checking his watch, he closed the door behind him. It seemed the right way to commune with the dead- door closed. The room was dark because the curtains had been drawn. Blood on the floor had thickened but was still slick. In the bad light his foot found a puddle and slipped. Catching himself, he walked to the bed where Geronimo lay, face cloaked to the eyebrows by a sheet. Miggi pulled the sheet back and little by little, Geronimo's offended- looking features appeared. Someone had closed his eyes but one had unclosed a little, as if not quite done with the world and needful of a last look.