Hospitable Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

Once, standing
in a patient parking lot
with jumper cables
held out in my hand,
all passed me by.
I'm thinking,
'They understand
my battery's too weak.'
The watchman got his car.
Exhaust soon filled
the cold night air.
Above, my dad
too weak to lift his head,
attached to tubes and wires,
lay in a bed.
The guard said,
'No one here
has will to spare.'
We prayed our barter bribes to God
and lost.
That guard, the car, my dad,
are long since gone.
Night nurses, aids and cook
punched out at dawn.
They cared.
I now can comprehend the cost.
Benign good will connectors
never viewed.
For those who toil I pray
my gratitude.