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Scant Reward - 10/05/2001

The wheel announced his arrival.
A squeaky fanfare
for an aged, flailing cheerleader
with a decrepit sense of rhythm
and an Alzheimer's memory for steps.

Barely afloat on a sea of confusion
he clung to a sinking mattress raft.
Wild eyes seeking dry land
while doctors and nurses surrounded him
like plundering pirates or sharks sensing blood.

Soothing voices and sedatives
eased his panic, sapped his strength
like a mermaid's hypnotic chorus.
Inexorably drawn towards the rocks
he slowly began to sink.
Behind quickly drawn curtains
I heard the stunted count of resuscitation
amid the efficient turmoil of the hospital ward.

No glamour here, no striking doctor
to save the day with unfeasible miracles.
No Clooney, no Edwards,
no beautiful nurse to save the dying
with improbable initiative
and stunning good looks.

So it was with a horrid fascination
that I listened to his family's grief,
a shabby guilt ridden intrusion.
It occurred to me then,
that dying in front of strangers
is scant reward for life.
 
© Nicholas Vosper 2001