My hospice room is rose and blue.

The blue is like the sky.

They think that if you’re happy here,

You’ll be content to die.

They proffer comfort, warmth,   and peace,

All shining like the sun.

They strive to meet your every need.

They meet all needs but one.

So now I have another scheme,

My object all sublime.

I’ve gotten on a transplant list,

And so I bide my time.

— Felicia Nimue Ackerman