DNR Poem by Florence Weinberger

And, she says, you can always change your mind later.

Stiletto pen above a gut-colored form,
my doctor glows in standard whites.

Yes or no. What does she know?
She's just held a cold disc to my throat
where the carotid tends to clog.

What if the river of blood, the flood of no return
is taking a pause, has become a slow leak
like the push it takes to pee at my age
and then resumes its creaky way
but it goes, it goes.

How can she be certain I'm too far gone
to harrow my muse or atone?

But under the rules her demeanor
is controlled
and her time is brief.