Ward 6

I am certain that I am unwell. A swelling golf ball Lodged deep beneath my skin Makes sure of that. The floors of Ward 6 Are mirror-clean and sterile, A nature-coloured chessboard for My bare toes to quietly tread. I have no flowers, no visitors, But home comforts in the form Of trinkets and beloved books Ease my mind. It seems the courtyard is a patient too, With its thin white blanket And icy cold stillness, Surrounded by tired staff. Time does not exist in Ward 6; The drip in my arm is my hourglass, The window to the right my sundial, And sleep my way of resetting the day. I am aware of my wardmates. Often I listen to their shallow breaths And wince at their pained calls for help But polite conversation evades me. There is a camaraderie, Kindness shared in a smile from bed to bed, In a New Year's Eve wish As our numbers deplete. I am no longer in Ward 6. Two days was time enough To rest, to heal, and to observe Tired people carry out tiresome work.