Behind the emergency room curtain,
the addict argued with the doctor
who had revived him,
who had returned him to life –
again –
the third time it had happened in a month.
“Please,” the addict pleaded.
He whined,
“Please let me go.”
The addict listed all he had to do,
all he could do,
all he might do.
“Please let me go.”
He made promises and
when those failed to move her,
he just as easily promised the opposite.
“Please let me go.”
Two things the doctor asked.
Two things the addict would not do:
sign the AMA,
take the prescribed meds.
Firm the doctor stood.
As security guards arrived,
gaunt Death,
quiet Death,
unseen Death,
Death rose from the corner and
said, “Not today. Not today.”
Then Death slipped silently through the curtain
To move down the ER hall.

29 August 2013

DL 6026

1 Comment

Filed under Poem

One response to “The AMA

  1. I love this. I have a poem called “Grilled Cheese Sandwich” on my site that this reminds me of a little. Thanks!

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