A Child Cries

As I walk down the polished vinyl squares
and pass the open door. I want to stop
and see if I can help, knowing that others
know more than I. Except empathy, perhaps.

People unseen through cracked doorways
moan or snore or sleep silently, none well.
They come or are brought because those
at home cannot heal or care for them.

I think of the collective misery emanating
from both sides of the aisle and it seems
to gather into a hell I want to run from,
sensing I may be among them soon.

So organized, on schedule with pills
and shots and catheters and bedpans,
meals on trays ignored by those who
cannot stand the smell of food.

Soldiers maimed and slung in plaster
suspended at angles, those who lie hour
after hour trying to remember what happened,
wondering where are the others.

I abort my appointment and flee.