If you ever had to go there
It would give your mom such a scare
If when they cut off your clothes
From your head down to your toes
You had on holey underwear
These urgent strangers dressed up in green gowns
Snip rip strip
My dad’s red pants underwear and shirt
From his ancient body
A de-frocked clown not funny anymore
“Oh Bobby, don’t look.” He cries
Mocks
Wonders if I get the joke
But rather than some skinny sagging
90 year old man
His skin is taut
Pulled round his plumpness
Knees bent to hide his hairy tangled groin
Head proportionally squat
Eyes darting with shock
Skin greased with sweat and blood
Like a wet canvas
Of the water colors he loves on walls
Hands panned under his flop
Skootching him up the gurney
My old man
As fresh and upset
As a new born
Helpless like us all.
Are there Staples in this staple sandwich?
I ask in the ER in the hallway
Where my bed for the night is
Where I need earplugs
To dim the constant sound of my mind
There is no room in this overbooked
Busy mind of mine
Red, blue and yellow thumbtacks, like MnMs
Make dull points, melted into the cookies
As I eat them without pain
Looking down at the plastic box that says
Staple Sandwich
I wonder
Does it really have staples?
I still ate it
Wheelchair boogie.
In thirty minutes I have watched three people wheeled in, and three other people wheeled out.
They come in with one little purse or wallet, some leave with balloons and a bunch of lap stuff.
The latest wheelchair occupant had a chipper attitude.
He was the first one to talk loudly, and proudly.
Wearing a veteran’s hat, an older man, maybe in his seventies.
He seemed thrilled to be here, in admitting, at the emergency room.
Someone asks if he has been here before.
Several others laugh.
His eyes light up, he is a regular.
His name is Frank, and he is whisked in right away.
Others have sat in the chair a few minutes, not him.
A man in a bright green glowing tie-dyed shirt with mostly neon pinks sits down next.
His turn for the wheelchair boogie.
His shirt is not a reflection of his personality.
He sits in silence, looking down at his hands.
Not a peep.
Wheel chair boogie.
Only thing to do in an emergency room waiting room.
Laying on a cot in the ER
A comforter is never offered
With people rushing by,
My pain, seeming unbearable
Like a hammer, beating through my skull,
And I wondered
If I'd make it out at all
That's when I looked over
To see him there
With his hand in mine,
All I could do was stare
At the man who tried so hard
To ease my pain
Even with nothing for him to gain
At that moment, my heart
Began to beat again
And it felt so good
To know I was not dead
E nter the waiting chamber
M oments seem like hours
E veryone stays away
R est on the gurney
G host of those that died here
E nter and brush the curtains
N ow here then gone
C ause that is all that one sees
Y earning to get answers
R emove to x-ray
O perative answers will come
O pen to options
M aybe
(I wrote this awhile back
nothing new has happened.)
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