The Sun fell down the usual way:
Gold to pink to black.
The end of another tawny Spring day,
And no, they’re not coming back.
Too many deaths on Hall 5:
Cancer, Dementia, and Heart Attack;
Old and young lives fading away;
Don’t care our hospice census is on track.
The Moon creeped out its old way:
Half to gibbous on passing high;
Poor professionals lacking an out to pray—
Is it really okay for the licensed to cry?
Tomorrow returns the Sun in bust:
Azure to pink to hot white.
Not only families ache when loved ones return to dust.
Come, sit, and let’s talk a mite….
Sometimes a rhyme or couplet wanders across my consciousness. So, I share it. Other times I'm a hospice social worker; others, a Dad; others, southerner, New Orleanian, cajun enthusiast, voter, and on better days, a not-too-awful-poet/rhymster. Welcome to my page. Enjoy.