my sister thought my mother
had died on her lap;
she walked to the bathroom
inside that depthless hospital hotel.
the putrid smell of life and death
all through-out this concrete heaven
and hell.
at the age of fifty-four
my mother's bones would
carry no more weight.
her gentle heart
her forgiving mind
her words so strong
but mine,
they are forced out
by constricted wind-pipes
and angry words
*i glanced down at the cot, where my mother died
as I made contact with my mother's pale-blue eyes
she looked at me with the most helpless,
childish face I've ever seen.
as if to say:
"he isn't here.. where is he...
where could he be?"*
she lived thirty more minutes.
he arrived a few hours later, asking:
"how's she doin'?"
never take for granted,
someone's borrowed time.