Worthy Witness

Phones with personalized tones ring

with insistent persistence.

Well-stocked carts pass by

with indifferent hosts.

Nurses, doctors, aids, students

with air of authority walk briskly.

Curtains cannot contain moans,

the soft murmur of concern.

Yellow buckets of soapy water, mops;

the stringy type, pass, hour by hour.

“How are you, Mr. B?  Feeling better?  has your nosebleed stopped?” an aide asks.  “Damned idiots!” he thought to himself, “my nosebleed is important, but I can’t breathe.”

Joking doctor, ear-to-ear smiles:  “I’m the best nosebleed practitioner there is; no bleeding coming through the gauze, eh, Mr. B.”

“No.  Great job doctor, and what are we going to do about my breathing?”

Lights hurt my eyes;

constant beeps assault my ears.

A professional woman walks into the room.  No, I see that it is a tall child.  “Well Mr. B, Doctor Jay has looked at your x-rays, and because we see a trace of pneumonia, we are admitting you.”

Smiles, held up with invisible tape,

light up the room.