Bug

Here comes the deadly trio.
Today they're here to talk
About feeding tubes,
And how fast the cancer is going to spread,
Because chemo charred your throat
And you can't have any more treatment.
Doctors 1, 2, and 3 look us in the eyes and smirk.
We are troublesome, stupid, and nagging as gnats on the beach.
We are so stupid we think we have the right
To ask questions. To stare back. To notify their superiors.
They shoot hospice options and dire scenarios
At the man in the bed who can sort
Out nothing they say. He can hear though
That he's despised in an impersonal way,
The way you might recoil at a roach,
Or a mouse in your clean kitchen cabinet.
If the good doctors could do what they want
They would order a nurse,
(Those doers of dirty work)
To crush you under crepe-soled shoes,
And mop up the mess.
Silverfish; insignificant; air breather.