Room Number Four Poem by Nastasimir Franovic

In room number four.
They hid death under a white blanket.
On the first bed to the left of the door.
She was lying down and scared those who were just having dinner.
Death was waiting to be taken away.
They came for her with the same white bed.
And they took her away with a ghostly screech of wheels.
That's how I saw death for the first time.
And a hundred more times in the semi-darkness of my hospital room.
I saw that white bed.
And listened to that eerie screeching of the wheels