Sunday Parade

Every day we tend them,
women and men wired to monitors,
people who have seen the white flash of light.
When they code at 2 a.m., alarms blasting,
we barricade death,
with sweat, with lidocaine,
and the darkness of our humor.
And on Sunday mornings,
we beautify with mortician flair:
sponge and powder,
lipstick glossed on cheeks,
a necklace, a stickpin in their johnnies,
sit them up like kings and queens,
on the red vinyl throne of a geri-chair.
To the music of the Gomco's suck,
we hide tubes below blankets,
and prop the Times on withered hands.
All for the Chief,
with his clean white coat,
the strut and preen of his own parade,
in total darkness.

© CME LLC
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