Hospice Junction

So ready to cry in your arms,
But today’s broken heart is so déclassé.
I hold my iPhone in my clammy hand,
But mustn’t text when you’ve nothing to say.
Broken low down here in Hospice Junction:
I see pretty flowers wreathing the pretty birds.
I hear some pretty lady chaplain
Breathlessly whispering her fine holy words.
Some seventy-two have now come and gone—
The team completing some of their unending chore.
They’ve resurfaced that old tattered roadway, and,
And, another admission: how do they go on any more?
The Sun and Dawn drags up another new day,
Nurses and the all will shoo away the Dark and the Harms.
And they won’t get home until way after dark
O so ready to cry in your arms.

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