PATIENT TAKES MY HANDS
The blue light of a candle flickers.
How it's blue, so much so, I am not
sure. The patient takes my hands.
'I am not a doctor, no' I tell the
patient, 'but if I were I would a
heart doctor, for you.' That seems
to settle things a little better.
How often do we die in bed? Is it
really only once in a lifetime? Or is
it, rather, every night, again?