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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.
Copyright ©
Han Marlo
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