Burt Poole (2/19/1923 - 5/16/2012 / North Carolina)
What a place to lie and rest,
between white sheets,
so neatly pressed.
Such sereneness, such repose,
when each day comes to a close.
Yes, I long for such sweet sleep,
counting blessings instead of sheep.
Trouble is, when sleep I’ve got,
it’s then I’m awakened for a shot.
Then come the noises from the hall,
and another patient’s call
for a bedpan or a pill,
or else, more covers for a chill.
When I finally start to dream,
there comes the nurse with face abeam.
bringing water for a bath,
and she almost makes me laugh,
as she says, “Now we must bathe”,
“AND”, she adds, “Then we can shave”.
If with good health you’ve been blessed,
you’ll have no need to get your rest,
where the nurses come and go,
checking patients head to toe.
Don’t look for sleep if you get ill,
and even less when comes the bill.
Comments about this poem (Hospital Sleep by Burt Poole )
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