The Hospital Room

an IV needle, trickling life into an arm
a burdened minister, head bent over a hand
soft words of prayer, but no hope
radiator thrumming in the background
another hospital bed, an outsider
a hard wooden chair, barely padded
with a person, crumpled in its seat

several people standing motionless
as if extra pieces of furniture
littering the bare space of the room.
Tears, countless tears, on cheeks,
on hands, tasted on the lips.
A nurse, unwelcome guest,
the only movement in a room of statues.

Two children, a boy and a girl
with young horrified eyes,
closed lips, closed by hands
which hold back sobs
too powerful to be released.
screams, which would only upset
the other occupants of the room,
must go unheard
but are echoing, echoing
in their bodies.

Soft beeping of a heart monitor,
the ragged breath of an old lady
her occasional moans of frustration
as she struggles against the body
which has become her prison.
A pristine sheet, over a swollen figure
a child’s hand placed in her grandmother’s
a voice rising in song, singing favorites,
singing hymns, bringing comfort, but no peace.

Unseen, a disease, which ravages
a once alert and energetic body
reducing it to something barely recognizable,
something barely human
A newcomer enters, with tears,
and with words, not of hope
but of release, of comfort, and love,
words without blame.

Two daughters, a song, and grandchildren
a minister, and a daughter in law
are with an old lady in a room.