The Nurse

Her scrubs are three shades lighter
    than inky midnight blue
prepared for an all-nighter
    in a bold and helpful hue.
This evening her breakfast was
    a cold-cut club on rye,
courage for the next lost cause,
    and a sip of questions "Why?"
And in the bleary weary noon
    she smiles and laughs and prays
before a shift that comes too soon
    where she will do the same.

The Future

Well,

It's begun.

Time

Marches on

And the call

Of the future

Is drifting

In on the wind

Of the present.

So

How 'bout now?

Our days

Don't know how

To bore us --

That's the trouble.

But maybe coming 'round the bend

There's some ho-hum gonna begin.

For now it's

Every day a battle

Every day pitting our all

Against all the world

Throws at us.

Of course

We must have our wits

About us

No slack on the line

Is gonna save us

In that moment

When the ready are ready

And everyone else wonders

What hit 'em.

Still,

We wait

And see

The tunnel's terminal light

Glow brighter,

Pressing on

Though long

The distance untraveled,

Fighting on

Though few

The virtues untrammeled.

Yes

It's begun.

Indeed,

Time marches on

With the call

Of the future

An inescapable summons

Of death

Of life.

And the only answer

Is either

To live

Or die.

Can you hear it?

Do you hear it?

Will you hear it?

Live!