We all share a destiny of death. Those who twarth it for awhile aren't necessarly any luckier than those who die young. Doctors and their dying patients share their lives and an unforgiving universe. This poem was published by Coffee Press Journal, copyright, J. Donald Coonrod.

Doctoring

I am the doctor who comes
when cancer has filled the lungs

with cannonballs of lifeless tumor,
draining breath and every hope.

I carry the burden willingly,
preoccupied with the means of death,
avoiding what lies beyond.

As we talk, a pale hand reaches out,
blue veined;

a voice asks
an unanswerable question.

I too am reaching, wondering
who is saving who?