Why Am I Here?
Here in this dinky room
stripped to the waist,
given a shirt that opens
in the back, doesn’t button,
trapped in a bed with bars,
while people are scurrying
about like squirrels on attack?
You tell me keep a sense of humor.
People masked like bandits
ready to rob me of decency
and who knows what else?
They’re poking me for blood,
swabbing inside my nose,
constantly squeezing my arm
with some gizmo that feels
like the first step to amputation.
And don’t they talk to each other?
Every person who enters
asks me my name, date of birth,
what year it is, and who’s president.
Why don’t they look at a calendar?
Turn on TV? And didn’t you tell them
we exercise every morning?
No need to repeatedly ask me
to point my finger to theirs,
squeeze their hands, lift my legs.
From the ER to the hospital room,
the same thing over and over.
I’m in great shape,
passed every test perfectly.
Feels like I’ve been here a month.
Why can’t we just go home?
Didn’t you tell them
my son drove from North Carolina
to see me? Brought his dog,
Bridget, to meet me?
I’ll tell them.
I have to be home by lunch.
And I was.
Copyright Ó 2022 Jane McKinney & Mary McKSchmidt
From briefcase to pen, paper and camera, one woman's journey to influence
how we care for the environment, our seniors, each other.
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The Ideal Gift
Tiny Treasures, a collection of wildflower photographs and poetic prose, available by contacting me.
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