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Poetry Magnum Opus

A Child Cries


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A Child Cries




As I walk across the polished vinyl squares

and pass the open door, I want to stop

and see if I can help, but know that others

can help more than I. Except empathy, perhaps.


People unseen through cracked doorways

moan or snore or sleep silently, none well.

They come or are brought because those

at home cannot heal or care for them.


I think of the collective misery emanating

from both sides of the aisle and it seems

to gather into a hell I want to run from,

sensing I may be among them soon.


So organized, on schedule with pills

and shots and catheters and bedpans,

meals on trays ignored by those who

cannot stand the smell of food.


Soldiers maimed and slung in plaster,

suspended at angles, those who lie hour

after hour trying to remember what happened,

wondering where are the others.


I abort my appointment and flee.

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