Hospital Halls and Walls

Written by: Bill Doggett

I catch a fleeting glimpse of her room from the hall,
my back slams lightly against the wall,
slumping listlessly, my anger out of control.
As she lies in her hospital bed, tubes patrol
in and out of every conceivable opening,
with new vital bodily fluids dripping
monotonously, in time released droplets of life
through the needle pierced veins of my wife.

Abruptly, I feel the cold uncomforting
frigidness of this smooth wall unyielding,
pressing firm against my back, in this hospital hall.
Reality becomes my depression shawl,
covering and smothering all of my senses.
Angrily my muscles push and body tenses
rejecting the insensitivity of these unfriendly walls,
and began repetitious canticle paces
through the drab, inculpable, uncommitting hospital halls.

Tears rush to my eyes flowing furiously,
focused anger colors my face visibly
revealing the naked fury of my livid crimson brain.
My heart beats with the resounding of pouring rain.
Pounding with my self incrimination, as I seek others to blame.
Doctors, Surgeons, God, others must drown in this shame.
Anger rolls through my entire being, allowing no one to console.
This anger is pervasive, it permeates into my soul.

Our oneness is evident, she stirs and I know.
In another universe, I sense a furrow in her brow.
I turn swiftly, my pace quickening to a full stride
at her door and move quickly to her side.
A moan, a gasp, a sigh, a groan, a cough,
but, the medicated trauma flowing through
her inlet tubes, force her back into a heavenly sleep.
I breath a sigh of relief for her and weep.