In aging creative writing hospitals poetry

New Rhythm

White walls, sterile floors, constant beep.
Familiar, but not comforting.
Another obstruction, another wrong, another test.
More blood, more labs, more time.

This jarring disinfected space, with no real measure of time,
this has become my new rhythm.
Interspersed with work, church, and bedtime is the
we-are-never-prepared night under the Emergency Room sign.

Another night without answers. Another night of pain.
Another night without sweet dream kisses tucked in.
No answers, nothing to prevent this, just fix it as it comes.
Another hospital night the same.

This new normal has aged me: wrinkles line my face.
Chocolate waves now reveal subtle silver,
ER chairs unyielding stiffness linger for days on.
And the tiredness follows: shown pocketed under hazel eyes.

Name, date of birth, medical history,
I know his better than my own.
Medications, procedures, symptoms
These are my second language.

Another sleepless night,
followed by another early morning.
Another worry to be weighted,
as the rhythm repeats.

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