I delay
My trip to the hospital,
Until today.
Extensive buildings,
A city within a city
All too consuming,
Hovering and looming,
While reflecting the surroundings,
The weather, and the avian
Traffic in the glass.
As all that passes bends from
Window frame to
Window frame
Never to be seen again.
The emulation reflects
What is constant change.
Each cloud is unique, and temporary, and fleeting,
And, their not exactly, white color,
Passes by or slips into the sky.
Perhaps the patients
The one’s that lay dying
Behind the reflection,
Reflect on ephemeral instants’ of their lives
As they are adorned with IV tubes,
Like someone’s royalty left for dead.
And, incessant beeps surrounded them,
Which bellow out; like
Listening to a bullhorn
From underneath the water—
Sound traveling muffled
After some time. Everyone
Is vaguely aware,
Of death in the air.
Nurses go by,
To tend someone else’s needs.
A body, taken to the morgue,
As an arm, dangles over the edge,
But you don’t notice because you lay dying yourself.
Somewhere, sirens employ a miasma of
Ordered chaos in the form of blurred scrubs,
Towards a gun shot victim,
Where that patient floats
Out of their body, Belly-up,
Next to the eye sore of a crash cart,
Full of intrusive instruments
That live in red draws, which mock
The wounded who fight for their lives
In another hospital—but
Not this one. In this one,
The crash cart is white.
Not sure of the surroundings,
And a bit cloudy on the reasons for your stay,
You ask why you are in that bed.
Outside, the reflection of the clouds are now gone,
Showing only blue sky
For a brief time before the sun sets
Behind a cold building. Glowing
In orange hues overtaking the blue,
It promises to be,
A sunny day tomorrow
As you lay dying in Boston.
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