Sunday, April 11, 2010

Sunday Stevens; Sunday Sonnet

Crank it.

Bed 1.1

Right now I feel less holy than a head
of cabbage. It’s too early for a break --
I’ve only seen three patients -- so instead
I’ll choose an easy room (I hope) to make
this stretch less draining. Ah, one-one’s asleep;
that worked out well. He’s middle-aged and gaunt,
cheeks sunken, forehead bloody, clothes a heap
beside the bed. He twitches. Spirits haunt
his dreams: distilled, I think. Oblivious
to wailing from next door, he snores in peace,
hands pillowing his cheek. I’m envious.
I practice seeing Christ in him, release
my anger at the mom, note mocking doubt.
So easy to be loving when they’re out.

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