Some nonsense about bleeding where I butcher all poetic syntax; and then a poignant tale of a little old lady with dementia, who should not have had open heart surgery.

Where It Spurts

Hemorrhagic shock, oh my
Too much leaks and then you die,
You have to find out where it spurts
And the mechanism of the hurts.

Compensatory means
Of life survival,
Forego thera-
peautic arrival,
Recognition
Is the key,
And that comes down
To you and me.

Mama, Mama, Mister

Mama, mama, mama
She chanted all night long,
It was just a long refrain
To the, “Mister, help me” song.

So confused, she had no clue
That her chest was sawed in half,
She said, “Mama, mama, mister, lord”
So much we had to laugh.

Her nights stretched into days
The days became a week,
Her mantra echoed in the halls
Our situation bleak,
Because we couldn’t send her home
In her current state of fitness,
The program might be threatened
If she was called to be a witness.

Now she’s parked out in the pasture
Because we didn’t have a choice,
If you’ll take the time to listen
You can hear her plaintive voice,
Chanting, “Mama, mama, mister, lord”
Come help me won’t you please,
Or it might be just a trick
Of the early morning breeze.

Fibril_late; 3/95