Last hours did the nurse whose name we loved, Bird, look on you,
drawn to the bubbling and filtering
the never asleep waxed hall light framing her torso,
the swallowing i.v. bags she adjusted at first then monitors screamed
like being left at the bottom of a mine shaft.
Her dark eyes lidded with the lie she’d tell his widow:
“come quickly, he’s still alive, hurry”.
Bird now alone with his tubeless body after the flock of Drs. leave
before his wife meets his passing
brings the folk angel to him wraps
its string between his clasped fingers
for his wife to know.