Arrhythmia's

Arrhythmias
for the good people at Concord Hospital- 5 Aug 12

It would be easy
to hate this place,
How very tiny we feel
within the enormity of it.

But it has taken us
into its rooms.
Set us apart
where we can watch,

The nurses and technicians
of all names, festooned
in their pinks and yellows,
their cheerful cartoon prints.

They have determined to
care for the afflicted and
the stricken among us.

They make the measures
and the counts, stay awake
the long nights, while we
attempt rest between
the lifeless walls, nod off
to the songs of crickets
in their machines,

As we pause on the
landings of our long descent.
And bargain with the
dealer of our decrepitude.

It would be easy
to hate this place.
The fluorescent evenings
and disheveled sleep.

The bins of things
wrapped in plastic.
Our clothes folded
into an uneasy slumber,
inside a borrowed drawer.

You see, We do not
want to come here,
but we must. Driven
by that familiar fear,
The one which makes us
who we have always been.

We do not wish to
grow frail and feeble,
In need of the others,
who will mark our path.

So we resent it all,
the tubing and linens.
The taking of deep breaths.
The lying still
attempting to heal.

It would be easy
to hate this place,
Thinking of the bed
at home half empty, as

We take notice of what
minutes appear like
in passing.

by Daniel Thomas Moran

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