Comfort can be so easy to provide. Kind words, a warm blanket and a shot of morphine. How hard is that?

Another Blanket

Spaced-out
In a peculiar kind of way,
Couldn't name where he was
Or the time of the day.

Forty-five years old
And at the end of his line,
He appreciated a warm blanket
And told me, "that's just fine",
He said it was pretty unusual
For a cop to wipe his butt,
I told him, "This isn't the jail,
You're parked at Hospital-Hut".

He gave thanks for every thing
Every kindness that was given,
Perhaps he knew his days were numbered
In the life that he was livin'.

To palliate his pain
He'd ask for a little treat,
"You know, a shot of morphine"
Better than food, better than sweet.

His sister was concerned
That he seemed a little confused,
Was it a sign of some kind of brain damage
Perhaps he was abused,
Maybe that lump upon his head
Was from a fall onto the floor,
He was missing a couple of days
So we'll never learn that score,
But it didn't really matter
In the long run of his illness,
He had end-stage HIV
And I could appreciate his stillness,
While seeking comfort for his basic needs
Like shelter from the storm,
"How about another pain shot
And a blanket; make it warm".

Fibril_late;
1/12/09