The porches of the three-story
brick hospital were enclosed by screens
and bars and there the veterans of the Great
War would sit in their pajamas and smoke,
slump in their rocking chairs not rocking
and wait for the nurses to take them back
to their shared rooms. Once, when it was past
the usual time, my father and I went inside,
wandered the grey halls to try and find
my mother among the nurses. She was stooped
over a man in a wheelchair, holding his wrist,
not counting. I’ll be a few more minutes,
he’s dead. We all waited for the doctor
to relieve my mother and write the certificate
so we could get out of the hospital, home
past two elementary schools, to our neighborhood,
where WAR was painted on stop signs
and where old men with thick glasses
waited at red lights, selling paper flowers.
Audio Reading:
© 2000 by Patrick Martin
Originally appeared in Poetry.
© by Patrick Martin. All rights reserved. No duplication in any print or electronic format is permitted without express permission from the author.
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