timothy michael fulghum
Hospitals are nothing but prettied up morgues,
eagerly waiting to up their serving quota.
Nurses hustle in vomited greens and Pepto pinks,
while doctors bustle in voided whites.
Their sneakers screech on Pine Sol’d floors,
but the lemons go unnoticed against
stinging disinfectant set to kill germs,
to kill fear – but in the end, hope.
Tubes and lines hang out of mouths,
misplaced veins, connecting to its heart:
the IV drip that tethers her between
life and death. Relatives stand, crowded –
unsure of what to think, or believe.
Sitting seems rude, but standing feels helpless.
And here is the doctor, his routine visit:
“The numbers have lowered since yesterday…”
And he leaves to deliver the clipboard’s news
to room 1632. He doesn’t love this woman
like the tribe surrounding her does.
Hands connect as the family prays for hope,
as they desperately try to kill their fear that
hospitals are nothing but prettied up morgues.