Just Another Day With Death – A Poem

death3

They call at two

They call at three

Makes no real difference to me.

The dead . . .

They care not what time I am forced to rise

They care for nothing

About nothing.

Where are my scrub pants

Dirty from the last prep

death4

Come, the dead urge me

They insist

I answer, after finding new pants

I’m coming.

Soon you will be

Lovely as can be

And all because of me.

Just another day with death.

death2

 

 

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