Death Wore Rose Colored Glasses (Published in The Poetry Journal of Maine 2014)

The arms keep vigil over your bed
ticking away minutes and hours
In military time
Children, unfamiliar to you
sit nearby peeling onions
and wiping each other’s tears
while sparrows
fling their small brown bodies
against the window.
Clowns bother you
blocking your limited line of sight
with their big red noses
tugging at the tubes in your throat with their white
gloved hands
and the onion peelers
approach your bedside tentatively
adjusting the thin flannel blanket covering your legs
and even putting a pair of pink fuzzy socks on your cold,
cold feet.
At night the sparrows give way to bats
That somehow find their way in and hang upside down
on your IV pole.
The clowns poke and prod
their giant rubber shoes squeaking so with each step
that you cannot rest.
At least the onion peelers have said goodnight
leaving a mess of papery skins on the floor
unaware you’ll be gone by morning.



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