Hypertension Follow-Up
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”/She keeps repeating herself.
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“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”/She keeps repeating herself.
Tears in her eyes/Puddles in a funnel of wrinkles/She fingers her golden ring
It is a snowy day in April / The three of us each sit at our own windows and watch the remainder of our winters, / She says it came out of nowhere. / She means the snow maybe, or the Dementia.
I quickly realized, they allow the inner recesses of my soul to connect with my imagination, together spewing forth a wonderful concoction of syllables, metaphors and outright madness on dozens of sticky notes
Lights off./Screens on.
he sits on the edge of the bed, forlorn – / eyes squeezed shut, back hunched over. / the veins snaking up his arms seem / translucent as he clenches the bed rail / in a death grip.
Notes must be written, and labs must be ordered. / Everyone has their role to do, or else chaos is restored. / All this every day in one golden hour.
Touch, pinch. Move, shift. Tap, reflex.
The moon has risen and our shift has begun. / We night owls hold vigil in the resident room.
The fault, however, doesn’t lie on me alone. / I’m but a product of the American diet and the capitalistic moan.
Twenty-four hours a day. / Spent all in one place. / The beds, the lights, the rooms all the same. / The hospital is today’s domain.
The boy coming to the office was eight. / Came in with tremendous hate. / An exceptionally troubled household.