Washing My Hands

I notice the faded butterfly tattoo

On his cold lifeless upperback.

His body eaten up with

Poor living and more poor decision making

And now finished off by disease.

Found on a cold hard floor

Curled up beside a toilet.

How miserable a place to die

Here, antiseptic and alone.

No DNR orders, so we do the deed

Because we're supposed to.

CPR - and for what, a chance?

Well, the living go on living

And the dead are just that - dead.

So I wash my hands;

Washing them of his death,

Washing them of his dying on my shift,

I just wash my hands.

Then I get to the paperwork

And I get back to my routine.