rottenart

The Hospital


At 2:00 in the morning,
like it is now,
when the pump,
wheezing gears and tubes,
began to move,
my father drew circles in the air,
to occupy the hours,
high on pain and painkillers,
the night after and the years before,
unable to speak;
I watched,
eyes dark with youth,
fatigue,
not understanding,
until later,
when dinner plates,
portioned off with care,
became important,
often,
the beast,
with grunts and groans,
grumbled and winced;
I would,
at first,
empathize,
comfort,
though now,
as do my mother,
family,
son and aunt,
I ignore,
knowing this happens all the time;
no worry unless supper is late,
routine disrupted,
clock unseen,
all of us,
without capsules,
for every ailment,
valium too;
He cant be upset,
doubling over,
fretting the bills,
sweating in summer,
mending a fence that I should have helped build;
I think,
in a sterile room,
behind a putrid green curtain,
god sleeps,
at peace,
free from care,
he groans again;
I weep,
alone,
sixteen,
gazing at the night behind the window,
skipping school,
when it was to my advantage,
and his displeasure;
We fought,
as we do at that age,
not keen enough,
full of wonder,
fear and hate,
questions,
images,
and excuses;
I saw,
at 2:00 in the morning,
my father,
beginning to die.