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
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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