Enduring Power Of Attorney Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

They laughed a bit at first,
to break the ice, he knew
they were as ill prepared
as he, the sisters were,
while the quartett of doctors
blinked and gave a tug
to the great symbol of the craft,
the stethoscope which hung
precariously it seemed to him,
around the stilted arrogance
of what he knew to be the neck.

His mother had attracted, suddenly
a strange affliction with the, well...
he'd memorised the name last night,
the sternocleidomastoid, that was it,
a mini stroke, they said, it often does
the unpredictable, it makes them spit,
can't keep a morsel down, perhaps
they urged he try, a son might win
where others feared to fail. Alright!

They were polite to him, of course,
he had the paper, after all the power of,
and all decisions passed through him.

Do Not Resuscitate, in crimson red,
it was a handsome decoration for,
a chart that had by now, grown up
and out, filled to the hilt with dots,
and lab results, a list of potent drugs
that were expected to perform as planned,
though not a single soul was able to,
or was it lack of will, describe the logic,
and the rationale; heck who, I ask you now,
who would, it was his mother though,
who wants to know? Things will eventuate
as he had seen that day, displayed
on a well lit and prominent billboard,
a flag to draw them in, where they could pray,
and give. Donations always paid, they say.

The one with snow white hair, and beard
had beckoned once, then waited as the nurse,
expressionless, did usher him into the room,
it was decision time, and he would be the one,
to use his stubby thumb, which must decide
her fate. And all decisions sought finality
within his mind, so unprepared, and bare,
she would not last the week, without a bit
of simple food, and drink to heal the soul,
and strengthen a resolve he did not feel.

She spat, they said, due to the muscle thing,
the sterno whatcha.., and the veins were,
put it mildly, similar to open market yarn
sold in the summer heat of Mexico, it frayed
and mother, in a never-ending fit of rage,
would yank until the needle gave, and popped,
allowing precious blood to flee and stain the sheets.

They were, they said, observing a small Waterloo,
he was Sir Wellington in this, a tragic play,
so would he sign and tick the verdict, please today?

He snapped at everyone, a huge surprise,
he called them cowards and to end their silly lies.
This is my mother here, not Terry in her bed,
you killed a cripple with such ease and no one said
that it is wrong to keep the food and drink from man
So let us feed my ailing mother while we can.