It's the paperwork.
The squiggles of doctors,
chickenscratch really,
small and illegible.
Lines upon lines and black
"check here" boxes for
this and that.
You read the paper, the papers,
the entire folder.
Female, male.
Young or old.
His back hurts, she's dying,
but it's just pain meds and
numbers,
and doctors' signatures, black against
the white.
You fill out another form, bumping
up the meds for him as
you go to see her,
walkin into the white-washed
room, clean, with the
clean bed and white fitted
sheets...

Its the woman.
The woman who's heart monitor
records each lub-dub, her
last ub-dubs,
trickle of the saline drips to
keep her from vomiting more.
The clean of the room turned
sour,
her sweet and urine marring
the sheets.
This slin, dying body turning
itself inside out from the pain.
Her young man wincing at
each of her cries, patting a
damp cloth on her face and
neck.
Sadness in his eyes.

And you check a black box.