This Week Has Sucked: A Poem

Woodhull

Hospital days, they’ve stretched
and blended for me, too.
Wrapped around and warped inside
a continuous string of long,
fluorescent-lit hallways,
sudden shrieks of beeps and
strange proclamations from
unfamiliar people.

The Brooklyn streets hum along
with the fresh, uncertain
winds of early spring.
Some days a scarf is an option,
although there is still
one slick slab of ice
covering the length of
half a block of Broadway.
I have learned
to edge my way around it.

This has been one in the few weeks
I have known you, at all.
Full of consecutive days of
you, full of tubes, waiting,
Allotted hours divided up into
ten-minute slices,
individual minutes dotting by,
impervious to anything outside.
I have sometimes seen your
slow, small smile,
and kissed you good-bye
several times.

False balms are just that,
and after the muted panic
of Tuesday, an all-day drama
on an 8-hour stage,
It remains to be seen, what remains.