The cab pulled up, splashing.
It soaked my shoes 
for the rest of the night.
I did not speak a single word
during that long ride uptown.
I closed my eyes and gathered
white light around me, and
pulled what I could within me.
This was not the first time
that I had given the last rites
to someone I had never met,
but it doesn't ever get easier.

Then the cab jerked to a stop
and I rocked forward against
the back of the front seat.
The driver said:
"Mount Sinai Hospital"
and pulled away before
my purse was closed.

My shoes squeaked the entire length
of that long ninth floor corridor.
I walked into a green and white room,
and his exhausted family filed out
to take some nourishment.
I sat beside George 
in a brown metal chair.
One of its legs was shorter 
than the rest.  I prayed, 
and tried not to rock.

At last, his breath rattling,
George tried to whisper something.
Pushing aside the tubes,
I put my ear to his mouth 
and heard these words:
"Does God love me?"
"Yes, George," I said,
all the while keeping track
of that precious green line,
"God loves you very very much."
There was a pause.
A long long pause.
Tubes hissed and sucked,
and strange machinery
beeped and clicked in a language
that I did not understand.
I prayed.  I prayed until 
at last I heard a cough.
I pressed my ear
to his mouth again
and heard these words:
"I did not love God."
And the line went flat.

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