Michael
confined to a room
propped up on pillows
lies an emaciated figure
beard and long hair
like Jesus he does not believe in
tender in suffering
no doubt barely sustained
by a saline drip
and morphium tablets
he politely accepts
small portions of food
he possibly wants
or not as the end of life
as he knows it has neared
a father husband brilliant mind
now reduced to drifting in
and out of consciousness
being a doctor must make
hanging on more difficult
when science and feelings mix
with enduring and pain
his daughter reads him
small verses by Edward Lear
which he himself shared with her
when she was a child
all of a sudden laughter
barely audible but powerful
fills the room and his eyes
fill with both sadness and joy
no one has the right
nor the power to define
quality of life
but memories and words
are medicine when
storm clouds of emotion
entice reason and orthodox therapy
to take a bow and quiet retreat
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