by Robert Farrell
They say he cried,
And lay on Mommy's chest,
He was dead before we left the bay.
Pale, pasty-looking skin and a useless heart
Flogged with epi and atropine, tossing out
A beat now and then.
The tube sends air
In and out, but there's no one there.
Soft ribs bending like a plastic doll's --
He lay in a pile of bloody trash
As we tried to think of something else to do.
The white limp child is allowed to be dead
The spell of activity broken, the OB cries,
And the resident,
And the attending.
We pack our gear and leave.
The grief or fury throbs, and
So armed, we
Re-set our watch, though here
Everything failed but the tears.