Because I could not stop for death,
He kindly asked I pause.
My arms were full of sterile wraps,
Scissors, tape, and gauze.
My team awaits, I gesture on;
They clot the narrow hall.
I have my labor, leisure none,
Yet I stop upon his call.
He turns to face room forty-two,
I question, “Why the haste?”
“It is her time,” he answers low.
I beg of him, “Please wait.”
I say, ”We have not finished yet,
More labs and tests are pending.
More to offer, more to give,
Her care cannot be ending.”
Death takes my hand in vile cold
Yet warmth conveys his voice:
“I have a task I must complete,
Her life is not your choice.”
I try once more to beg for days,
For minutes, seconds more
To carry on our work of life.
Words land on stoic shores.
“It is her time,” the calm reply.
A rush, release of pain.
And he is gone holding her soul,
Code blue a faint refrain.
Image Credit: “corridor” (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0) by appropos
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