Face, Face

Down the hospital corridor

White coats carry the sheeted form

And lay it in the prophylaxis room

There to wait the mortician.

Abruptly the sheet falls loose

Through its own decision,

And the face is there like quicksand

To my eyes, mouth twisted.

No one starts, the room is quiet.

We look on death as on a diet

One part love

And three parts failure.

There is the body, white,

Blotted of its blood.

Cover it with the sheet

And seek some other task.

Do not admit defeat.

James Schevill