In the room
where we must
gown and glove
and mask
Jackson sleeps
on a plexis, a mattress
soothing all his sores
the scabies infiltrating
his wrinkled pale skin
less muscle mass
scarred from an old Polio
His body wasting with
the disease of stool
and too many antibiotics
too much resistance
This is the night I must
admit him to the unit, and
hang another med,
acknowledge all his past
Ask him if he is in pain
and document his scale
asking him to recall the
number for my record
It is a night of sadness as
the light reflects onto the
shiny plaques, foreign
to my healthy skin
I was wishing he could
rise up from his bed and
take my hand without
stumbling or weakening
He would be strong, and
and healed and without
the sores and itch that
inhabits his frail body
The sound of his voice
not breaking in the darkness
of his isolation, the room
where we gowned, and gloved
and masked.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Good poem; your compassion shines through it.