I meet , daily, at 11 am, with a group of four
Grim, unsmiling people.
Their auras seemed to
Emit the hue of orange
In their capable, authoritarian hands
Much went on behind the scenes.
The panic of medicine
Of overloaded hospitals
Of cutting cost and nickel and
diming patients and employee alike
We’re getting sicker.
We’re staying sicker.
I can stay here
Ten days only
A rebellious kid aged -1 when I was born
Was there for hell raising adventures
And made me feel extremely old.
So many faces
Staring blankly at television
Made me glad I only had
The problems I did
And not the couch-stuck posture of
The clinically depressed
I’m tentacled to a hospital staff
Their recommendations determine my fate
And I shuffle impatiently
Waiting for an answer