Sunday evening of a long weekend call;
No sleep, fuzzy brained unshaven.
Too many operations,
Too many treks down half-empty hospital halls,
Too many 3 a.m. ER telephone calls.
I barely keep anything straight.
Thoughts slip in and out
Like rabbits through an ornamental fence
Surrounding a ravaged garden.
I’ve lost at least a few poems
This way, glimpses of things possibly interesting
But lacking the energy to look twice.
Missed connections, sand sifted through hands,
Having all the ingredients
When you’re hungry
But not in the mood to cook.
An insight into a truth
But too beat down, burned out
To muster the effort to make it sprout.
The last patient was this wizened
Cancer-riddled old lady wasting away,
Fascia nearly effaced.
There wasn’t much there to close
So I made do with what was left.
It won’t hold forever.
It won’t last.
But sometimes we must
Pick up the pieces
Of what we see,
Of what remains,
Gather up the fumbled
Verbs and nouns and weave
It back together the best we can
And that's the way it will be.
Those old, wizened, cancer stricken folks have the habit of taking up permanent residence in your memories.
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