Poem Hunter
(04 October 1943 / Germany)


At first it was the head,
a tuft of matted hair
a sudden unexpected pulse
a frontal bone, so bald,
all lookers tasting urgency.
And frozen in a world
of timid turbulence
he stood, completely motionless.
And not a sound except
the shrill and urgent 'PUSH'
of one who could have been
a genderless Marine.

It was a day like others.
Nothing of note except a birth.
And down the corridor,
passing the Nurse's Station,
she walked as in a dream
and pushed the button
of the talking lift.

A solitary tear fell on the tray
which was designed for cigarettes.
She had just heard the final breaths
of her companion of so many years.

And then, the angry cries, or was it joy?
Of one new soul that God had deemed
was sorely needed in this hapless world.

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