When you hunch over the bed
of loved ones dying
your hand clasping hers
your prayers for him unceasing
flashes from the past float
like ghosts in your head─
the lovers she took
the bankruptcy he filed
a sabbatical in London
that failed to materialize
children she never bore
after the miscarriage─
memories vanishing as day
slits the room and time froths
with nurses checking vital signs
friends saying farewell
comforting you, until,
once again dark descends
you resume your post
days and nights looping
the clock without end.
Then, and only then, you face
what you must do:
kneel and plead that death,
blessed death, come soon.