Montgomery Clift On The Hospital Floor

This is a real family and these are contrived events:

We broke into the triage with wire cutters;

the nurses, somehow, cared like prostitutes.

The private room smelled from the tombs

and blood seeped beneath the walls.

We claimed he beat himself with a shovel;

the fever, however, shouted like gunshots.

The tall man read lies from uncertain eyes

and interrogated suspicious vomit stains.

We thought of sermons wrought with god’s hammer;

the triage, though, wreaked like desert war zones.

The bodies piled high while universal death

and overdose drooled in his sick hair.

We laughed at his babble without assurance;

the drip, I’m sure, had killed the pain.

The creep could die from peaceful sleep

and tomorrow we’d lay the dead.
 

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