In the hospital for sick seniors
each pillow cradles a face
framed with white hair
underscored by bony knuckles
clutching white sheets.
Bodies, getting older together
join in a choir of symptoms;
the deep voice of bones broken
the tenor of organs failing
the soft alto of senses dulling
the high soprano of pain.
Doctors know this tune,
nurses move to its rhythm.
Lord of the song,
tune my ears to the meaning
of this slow dance towards death,
to the grace notes
in the age-old chorus.