by Joe DeLucia
A physician's guilt after retiring.
|Who's Caring For Them Now?
By Joe DeLucia
To work each day, eager to help the ill,
Injured, victims, mishaps, diseased humans.
Relief from pain, malaise, and death my skill.
Like grains of sand never ending they came.
Failsafe haven I waited, never long.
Patients arrived, foretold healing my game.
Perpetual patients day after day.
Nighttime, weekends, holidays, I was there.
Selfless care, always ready, my dismay.
Never doubted by them, omnipresent.
I would be there to undo what they did.
Rescind to prior state, pre-accident.
Held dear to me, desired them, be well.
Eyes stared into mine, gratitude bestowed.
I will be there, their suffering to quell.
Young hands scalpel still, black hair, fresh doctor.
Days turned to weeks, weeks to years, then decades.
Grey, wrinkled, fatigued, burnt out, I retire.
Who’s taking care of them now, I ponder?