Sometimes I’ll block out a little time
At the end of the day to round
On all my demented patients.
I wait for nurse’s shift change
When everyone is distracted,
And then stealthily slip into the rooms
Of the lost and forgotten, the actively forgetting
Close the door behind me
Dim the lights and then I just
Start dishing dirt, spilling my guts
Like the unchewed beans caked to the front of their yellowed gowns
I don’t hold back—
About how I’ve always been
Such a liar and a cheat
A puffed up phony who
Who isn't worth the paper
My fancy diploma is printed on
(Although it is a nice cotton rag)
I treat it like a Catholic confessional,
Without a priest, sans screen
I hit them with everything I know
All the lousy shit I’m mixed up in
All the ways I’ve dishonored my name
Then I ease up a bit—
Every round of penance does have its limits
Prattle on about the weather
Scold them for wasting the panoramic view
From their seventh floor window
Lying in bed all day, wink wink.
Most of them take it rather well
Some of them just lie there smiling
Like little dysenteric mute saints
Some widen their eyes in wordless joy
Some gape in horrified terror
Then there are the moaners, the agitated sundowners
The ones that surge to life with any stimulation
Aroused to a ravenous hunger for all the things they can’t remember
Scratching around in shadows for the very light that might kill them
I whisper in those rooms, to be on the safe side,
Which makes it easier to pretend I’m actually speaking to God
Which, to be honest, is just a word for the desperate hope
Of the forlorn and lonely
That someone is maybe listening
I know better, of course.
This doesn’t count as a sacrament
It’s more transactional
I tell them everything they don’t need to hear
In order to feel forgiven
And they get to remember, however briefly,
That trying to live with the gnawing feeling of slowly dying
Isn’t any easier than dying with a seizing sense
Of still being alive
5/22/23