Thursday, April 2, 2015

Aren’t hospitals supposed to be restful?

A slim line of white beneath the door
Around me the old women snore
Voices up and down the corridor

Try to sleep
if only the machine that goes beep

Now our door bangs open,
Flood of light too bright
“Whatcha want Mary?”
“I’m wet,” my neighbour whispers.
The nurse sighs (Where do you think you are? A hospital?)
Thundering out the door, the angel in white goes.
The light still floods, but out the window glows
the moon — amid the night a treasure
I squeeze my eyes tight
Soon they’ll wake me to take my blood pressure.

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