Whitman once asked
What good amid these, O me, O life?
and the question comes for me
standing beside a young woman rapidly dying
from a tumor filling her heart.
Then while walking down lamp-lit streets with
homeless men shivering in damp doorways
or when crowds of phone-peering people
throng to catch morning trains,
about what my father dreamt of
the night he died in his sleep on Kilimanjaro
or what doctors a millennium from now will think
about the medical care I provide,
the patients I cannot save,
and why I sometimes feel as
futile as a
when the body’s rhythms and the hum of life
as a snow-filled farm.
by our guest writer Avraham Z. Cooper