she arrives in the reception area
of the bustling dermatology practice,
at least sixty-something,
brought in by the muscular, young, uniformed man
who drives the ambulance
and delivers his pulse-possessing cargo;
her entourage includes
the loyal, white-haired husband,
the fulltime nurse,
and the soon-disappeared driver
who earned his company $447.10
for twenty minutes of work --
and he will be back for the
return trip home --
another twenty minutes;
and in considering
the immense cost
and complicated mechanics
of keeping her alive,
everyone forgets, most of the time,
that besides a nine-digit number,
there's a person in there.
March 17, 2009.
Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.