Monday, February 5, 2024


 Weekend Rounds

On Sundays the hospital 

Is quiet as a weekday church

The high-ceilinged atrium 

Like an empty nave.

Linoleum floors, empty waiting area chairs

And long halls that take you anywhere.

The silent OR is a dull gray catacomb

While the chaplain is down the street 

At the nursing home.

The patients are all upstairs

Swaddled in beds 

Behind doors in private rooms

Like sins hidden in the heart

Hollowing out bones

Festering in a stye,

Waiting to be tended to

By doctors making rounds.

Everyone gets seen—

Broken hip, productive cough

Post-op colon, rule out MI

No one takes a day off.


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