To modest souls, whose privates naught exposed man\'s member to remain covered, nor woman\'s nest discovered by none other than a mate, so ill prepared for happenings late. Some bodily functions are shutting down, your clothing traded for hospital gown. The renal system cleanses the blood. Now to the bladder these toxins are shoved. But if liquid yellow\'s exit is blocked, for the poisoned body the reaper will knock. From a golf course hole your doctor is called, a Foley catheter he wants installed. Meekness invaded by the hand of another, feelings to smother as the tube is placed, then the halls to pace, bagged fluid in hand trying to preserve what little modesty we can. Do we curse this Foley conduit, removing the kidney\'s waste, or do aging minds intuit, with relief we are graced.
Augustus / Seasons Hospice, Houston, Texas / May 2017