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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Broken but disbelieving, we wait for any doctor to say it’s just blood as the gray man greens, throws- up in triage. A Goth teen holds Band-Aids to her scalped thumb. Somebody loses patience, explodes, Why are the sick treated this way? Doors dilate & the sick smell of antiseptics greets a waitress wearing a steak knife. We are cribbed by loss; gone, teeny heartbeats as I pass blood clots. A junkie limps, unaided, to the bathroom, another throw away human, unlike a tot thrown from a fire. Unforgettable, that sickening sound, shrill scream after scream raids the room of complaints. Hell won’t wait for examination, I learn, as bloodshot eyes meet mine. Hope is lost. Patients stoically sit. Some lose change to a vending machine. A cop throws a look to his charge. Words drift, bloody stool, x-rays, concussion. Sick talk to the sick. My hand is gently squeezed. No one else waits- out a miscarriage. I watch an aid swab vintage tiles, restack HIV/AIDS pamphlets as if they’re a deck of cards, like loss is just some hand dealt. Somewhere, a mother waits for her boy to sleep, will wash bottles, throw out dirty diapers. Somewhere, a heartsick father releases bloodcurdling sobs because a body was found. Blood is both bond & amputation. I took first aid so I know why the sickest get priority. Besides, we've already lost each other, little one. Our separation has thrown me off balance. Why couldn't you wait? As if I need hearing aids, a nurse throws my name out to the sick, the lost, ER roommates. No. I'll never be ready. Let the bloody stirrups wait...
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