"May I take your vitals please?" 
"Are you feeling short of breath?"
"Which finger may I poke?"

Another 2nd shift hospital night 
Turnaround of circadian rhythms and
10 creaky doors.

12 hours of
Wading through somnolent swamps
Of aching, shaking hands;
Waiting juice boxes and packages of saltines,
While dodging familiar stenches of excrement that
Lodge themselves in every vacant nostril.

Here is a place called home for none
But the most curious fusions 
Of ennui and vigor;
Like every ride on public transit
Or fresh flowers in stale water.

Here the only observable constants
Are the reticent pleas of the people
To the vessels that carry them to
Just behave, goddamnit
(or god will it)
And I’m reminded of resignnent 
To the agony of unrequited love.

I weep like it’s my heartbreak
When I receive the thank-you cards,
Silently protesting the distribution of  gratitude
Because surely, re-acquainting me with
Humanity and humility nightly
Deserves more thanks 
Than steering cold, metal walkers
Through old, sterile hallways.