Patient Watcher

He sits in hospital chairs nobody offered him,
Patient as rust, unhurried, plain.
His coat smells like old waiting rooms and rain.
He doesn’t knock or clear his throat—
Just lets the monitors write his notes,
A tenant in the building, never late.

No urgency, no grand estate,
Just steady hands that fold and wait.
He knows the paperwork by heart,
The final errand, not the art—
When breath runs short and bodies stall,
He simply answers when they call.

In the hallway where the linoleum peels
There’s a presence that was always here.
Death leans quiet, patient, austere,
Counting down what no one feels
Until they do. His shadow spreads
Across the floor like unmade beds—
He knows that everyone gets still.
To him it’s just a house call, nothing ill.

Oh, Patient Watcher at the door
With quiet hands and nothing left to prove
You wait and wait, you never force or score
You just outlast us all and let us move
Of our own will, toward you, the only debt
That every living thing has paid and can’t forget

His face is plain but always close,
A pressure felt, a draft that knows
The rhythm of each stubborn chest.
He hears us bargain, hears us rest,
From first cry to the final slow
He waits for hands to finally let go.
And though we curse what he bestows,
It’s just the tab that always grows.

In quiet rooms where machines keep time
He lingers close with nothing left to say.
No hurry, only steady, certain sway
Over lives that pass like nickels and dimes.
Yet gentle too—a porter, not a thief,
Whose grip will end what breath began, with brief relief.