|
I wound up in the emergency room anyway. Hours and hours and Hours we waited Barely hanging on to consciousness. I slid down onto the floor Showed my icepicked veins There were a hundred of us waiting for care-The rich The poor, even “the steerage” no longer separated by class.
One Friday night We all clung to hopes so high, Climbing metaphorical walls, by fingernails. (Perhaps walls known better as time) That ours would be the name that would be called next.
The TV was on for background noise. Some watched the game, Others in too much pain watched spots on the wall that were sure not to move.
I watched my eyelids They got closer and closer to closing. I stopped caring, and sunk into the chair. And I heard a noise above my head The incoming helicopter roared. I was not to be next.
|