I think her name was Rose

 

How I met an Angel at Boston City ER

 
The cab stopped abruptly at the ER door
Hopped out, arms crossed upon the lapels
Of the blue navy coat
Reached for my wallet
The driver commanded:
“No, just get inside quick.”
 
The hospital staff
Rushed to him without question
then I saw the red stains
on my coat, wrists flowing holiday red
the right less, more of a timid scratch
not the anguished slash on left
the staff, attended with surprising calm
a petite nurse
with angelic eyes, like her skin
the color of a hazel nut
quietly confided/chided that I had so much
I’d been given gifts
pearls that society had laced
upon my neck, in hair and eyes
I had chosen the anarchy of self
blind to the sacred jewels
hanging around his neck
the book lodged in his head
still had pages to be written
not a coffin to slammed shut and buried
 
they offered me help
counseling which flowered with
the  pen, to write on those pages
a few right words
her faith brought back
his breath, his vision
the raft to float his life
again, from the waters of disaster
in lieu of the dirt
he’d scarfed from the dirt floor of inhumanity
bidding to love someone
who knew as little as he
how to love another
 
Now, I saw, I might be a rose
(was her name Rose?)
Ambassador of Life
Exhaling hope from that soil
Not selfish, not personal
But whole, beyond, above
The stem of self
the roots of humanity
the soil of life
Grasping, sharing
With the flow of blood, inside
Alive, for all to see
And maybe, yes, maybe to bloom  
 
 
A memory jarred from a friend who talked of suicide
From a terrifying pivotal night in Boston, in 1970
With eternal affection to JTRIII, who has left the world
Jack would have been 80 on 12/12/2022
© james m. frase-white 12/14/2022