Walkin on Air

Spastic Death



Just left the nite-shift
hospital emergency ward,
had to sleep
in my own warm bed;

wore my old air-force long-coat,
crystal shivers in subzero
typical Canadian winter:
shuffled the usual beaten path
leading to a hot stove,
when the red flash
caught my eye.

Police ambulance dominated
a small group
of half frozen night-walkers!
So what? I'm bushed, man,
need to sleep,
too much blood and gore
for one sitting...

yet a creepy pull drew me
thither:
regret forthwith,
everyone stood as if statued
staring fascinated at
stone cold sober Billy
no longer eternally drunk
pinned lethally to the wall
outside his flat door.

A parked car'd slipped on the incline
icy road surface:
Karmic mercy with a retributive twist
suddenly crossing
into Billy's misery of having
to stand outside
his very own house
totally drunk watching his wife
with an old friend;

Cut him in two: up against the wall, buddy!
Nobody knew what to do...
"Let me die, please..." gurgled he.

From the waist down he was mush:
no scope to rescue
from old misery to new misery,
alcohol to drugs?

"Look, I've called the mobile rescue team,"
I venture, "Any minute they'll be here."

"No, move the car and let me bleed
to heaven,
I just wanna go home; please?"

Billy's eyes persuaded me to be merciful,
"OK, let's move the vehicle!"
The cops sprang into action,
Billy slithered into oblivion,
I intubated him as a benign gesture,
the mobile rescue team ambulance arrived
vomiting doctors, paramedics, and whatnot...

Later on at the emergency room
Billy had died more than forty-five times
only to be artificially revived
while the priest bopped back and forth
like a vertical yo-yo
in a crazy elliptic spin;
poor Billy's spirit floated
near the ceiling
wondering when? Oh when, oh when, oh when...

After they gave up
Billy at last got to rest;
I went home
at last, got to rest
as well: no more spastic death.



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Spastic Death

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