Eyes that once were steely purpose
Now tearful, unfocused by age and care,
And hands once strong and useful
To their work, now wring bony fingers
One over another, or brush at
The straying of white cotton wool.
A nurse, officially busy, hurries
Through mazes of chairs and her
White-haired duties and has not time
To stop and attend to the stories
Of each and every life that once lived
Somewhere on foot and ran past age
In its youthful indifference.
She doesn't hear the frail voice,
Struggling with conscience and mind
"Who pays my bill?" it calls out and
"Do you know?" From every pounding beat
Of steps she inquires, eager to find
An answer fit for eyes of purpose.
And hands that working a trade still,
Furiously wring out upon the tray
Then cover eyes, clouded and red-rimmed
As she cries "Who pays my bill?"