You met us there, dying
Dying before we ever knew you’d be gone.
They told as much.
When our children die.
They were strained.
I remember that most.
The long onset of deep emotional dispair.
The gut wrenching agony
Of the tormented mind.
Your father still misses you so.
In the night he often lies awake,
Damp face from wet tears.
I remember you wave goodbye
At the airport.
That big beautiful smile
And that, “I’ll be seeing you real soon!”
He gave you the wrong medications.
I gave you the wrong cold.
Your medicines crossed
As our colds crossed.
I hate doctors now.
They killed one and nearly killed another.
Who gives an 80 pound little girl
Oxycodone and Vicadin?
A dosage DOUBLE the size for a full grown adult!
Oops, the pharmacy said.
You met us there, dying.
All before we knew you’d be gone.
Colds crashing towards doctors.
Prescriptions killing our youth.
Both our children.
Wet tears late at night.
All smiles in the morning.
Deep aching pain
Hidden like the pain killers who prescribe.
I hate doctors.
You are gone.
~ L. Davis, thepoetfarmer
A tribute to our son who died from a doctors prescription wrongly prescribed.