Soul of the Healer

"Still Life"

The curtains are closed. The room
smells of chrysanthemums

and baby powder. A wet sheet
pastes itself to the bed, drying

slowly in faint brown rings.
The commode is overturned.

Morphine tablets lie
deliquescing

beside an empty glass.
Someone knew he was

not coming back, unplugged
the TV and left.

Digital Image and Poem
By Sharon Carter, MD

Previously published "Spindrift" 2000

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