Jennie Sealy Hospital, Room 936

It is barely dawn when the latch clacking signals

Waking, for the fifth time. The lights go up

In a cruel mock of overpowered daylight,

The hue is not right- too blue, pale;

Like your gown, now drifting from your shoulder.

The knots and folds have left trails in your skin,

The red of life shown through your translucence.

The Velcro rips, sticks, and the vacuum machine

Beeps an eerie lullaby, a comforting meter

In the same progression as your last check.

The nurse finishes her paperwork with quick

Recognition of us, she offers a short smile;

I am glad not to know her, truly.

She cannot harbor all of our stories,

Share in the worries that creep up the walls here

In a flood, she would surely drown.

Jostled at an hour that seems reasonably restless,

I brush my teeth with a finger, the missing instrument

Not a frenzied packing priority. Now, the real necessities:

Coffee.

You are not allowed a drop of water, caffeinated or other

And I would feel poorly for wafting in this smell,

Unmistakable- for I know you are longing,

But it is the only solace from this “bed,”

For which I could not find a pillow, and sleep

Was only a torment of turning.

I step from our cave into a place that knows no time,

Does not feel the rising of the sun, the tides.

It is here that I remember my hair, yesterday's clothes;

But I am not the only zombie following this black scent.

There is understanding in the unsmiling eyes of the others,

They have lived their own undying night in our cell block.

But we are the fortunate ones, free to roam;

We do not feel fortunate.

It would be fortunate to not know the order

Of photos that line these halls: here the boardwalk,

Next the miscellaneous invertebrate-

The phallic snapshot that made mom laugh,

Still inappropriately humored in her frailty.

I walked this same route with her for exercise,

Now for a cruel memory lane, heightened

By the smell of foaming alcohol hand sanitizer.

I bet that scent is universally hated

By every fervent nail scrubber pleading to be cleansed

In this home of the ill, halls for the dying.

It would be fortunate to feel foreign here,

To be unaccustomed to the pulsating rhythm

Of in, out, stick, prod, beep, hum, light, dark, life,

Death.

It would be fortunate if my dad's heart would beat

In the proper rhythm, took notes from this space.

It would be fortunate to not watch him die,

Here in this bed he hates, just the two of us.

It would be fortunate if I believed in a god

Who would listen to this prayer.