To Dr. Emmanuel Mark
Two boys fling open the gate.
Shoving a wheelbarrow, they dash
in.
The patient's face,
ashy, harried, rumpled.
His body squirms
in bitter life battle.
Scorpion's poison coursing through his blood
is on the verge of victory.
Battle line drawn, the doctor shoots
phenergan, adrenalin, calcium into vein.
Death's grip slackens, retreats.
Two chickens are promised next week.
Wheelbarrow disappears down
dusty, country road.
The boys’ slow gait
a nod to a father's time extended,
the celebration of a reprieve.
(c) Althea Romeo-Mark 22.07.2012
Nice...I like the line, "death's grip slackens, retreat." Can already imagine the celebration that followed.
ReplyDeleteThanks Mrs. Mark. This poem is u. It really reminds me about the way yo write.
ReplyDeleteLovely!
ReplyDeleteI like it a lot. Has this West Indian touch. I wonder why? Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDelete