The Young Doctor Smells No Plague Flowers


In the hospital room

the doc watches Death come,

last breath a quiet sigh

surrounding the crash of stats.

He has visited Death’s country

and left with its blue bruise stamp

on his wrist and heart,

very thoughts.

No goodbyes.  No regrets. None.

Just schemes to betray it

when it tries to betray him

wrapped in a hospital sheet.

He save what Death stole.

He pull life out by the heels.

He rebirth it again,

give it years.

Death’s revenge took his mom first.

His dad made it two grave stones.

Today his pockets were all full

of Death’s black-blue pebbles.

The plague was blooming,

the pollinators were keen.

The world was a Kaddish,

torn cloaks and moans.

He saw blood through the sheets:

the new nature was just

now beginning its Spring bloom.