sitting
on a hard single
mattress, white sheet, white walls, old blue blanket
books and patients
regular checks,
sleepless evenings and earlier morning
beg for the healing to begin
in a moment's notice
in space defined by pulsemetres
and rhythms.
this morning i watched the sunrise
reflected off the harbour ships
far off, little frozen mirrors floating
waiting, welcoming:
no nerves calmed in ward bed -
the congee man comes soon after.
sevenhundredfortyfive pages
into an 1100 pager,
words tangle with thoughts of
walking, with what ifs,
with blood clots
and amputation,
then back to the words once again.
what makes me so lucky?
what if i am not?
genteel doctors make the rounds
seniors get the ten cent show
subjects means to ends, and so on:
some lots better than others, some
dependent on degree of rupture
and thus on success of surgery:
"here we have a 35 year old basketball player"'
he said congenially to his seniors,
nodding and wondering and ready to continue
their rounds at all costs. on to the next bed.
bring me home. little daughters.
bring me home to my queen.
