The hospital room is where life is measured
by tiny numbers and squiggle lines
and we're walking over a bridge
that might not be there tomorrow.
People cling to the blips and bleeps of the measuring
machines and air-filled cuffs wrapped onto feet and biceps
like new baloons given to childen
and promises that might not be kept.
With cancer or somesuch other thing
and palliative is the word they begin using
what in the world is going to occur
to the old hands and feet?
With extrapolations of vibrant memories
and all that is known here about to end,
a golden blare extends beyond,
and why do we fear it so?