The freshly minted neurologist

Watched himself

Assess the unconscious young woman.

A week ago,

Before the burst aneurysm,

She had been wife, daughter, and sister.

Now she was Do Not Resuscitate,

He informed the family

Huddled at the ICU bedside.

Terrified by the randomness of catastrophe,

The observer warned the doctor

To tone down his brusqueness,

Allow hope to fade into acceptance.

In the bony grip of high drama,

The doctor was out of earshot,

Offering statistics and condolences,

Platitudes and Kleenex,

And quiet time in the family room.

Let them see that you care.

Be what they will want to remember.

The observer pleaded,

But was drowned out by the

Roar of ritual.

The observer acknowledged a bitter truth:

As the neurologist’s narrator,

He was a kibitzer,

Not a player.

If asked,

He would readily forego

His self-righteous asides

For the opportunity

To grip the respirator tubing,

Feel the power.

Purpose and meaning are rare moments.

If they demand tone-deafness to self-deceit,

So be it.

The doctor made preparations.

The observer retreated.

To the far corner of the neurologist’s mind.

Together they disconnected the patient.