Yellow-streaked eyes,
She coughs
Blood
Upon the crisp
White sheets.
Clip clop
The horse
The hearse
"Bring out your dead."
She's not dead yet,
On this bed
She lays,
Breathes,
Coughs.
But she is close.
Her old yellow handkercheif
Flutters
Flaps
Tied to the door
"Don't come in. Here lies the sick." It says
I hate it.
I must change her sheets,
And cool her skin
Collect her coughs
In a bucket of tin.
I msut watch her suffering
Dying,
Once a strong woman,
Now naught but dust.
Her eyelids flutter,
She relaxes
The lights leave her eyes.
Her chest is cold,
Her pulse is no more.
"Bring out your dead!"
Clip Clop
"No!"
Out the window
To the hearse
The yellow strip of cloth
And I cry.
