The Hall

The Hall

I see it clearly.

It is long and straight but it has many turns.

The walls have pictures of body parts.

It has a big liver picture at which I stare.

I look at it many times and study it.

I bring friends to see it to help them understand.

The wall has a letter from a man.

I am afraid of the letter.

I do not read it.

The title says: “from a man who has had many surgeries.”

I never read it.

I think of the letter often.

I think of the hallway often.

I can see it’s never ending light.

The nurses and aids moving quickly

The machines being hauled up and down

The tight little knots of doctors planning for a moment in the room.

I walk the halls to escape the room.

I learn to sit quietly for long periods of time.

I look through the windows at the flowers and the rain.

I learn to stop my bad thoughts.

I do not learn to have good thoughts.

No one talks to me.

Not in the hall.

Not in the cafeteria.

Not in the entire hospital.

I am invisible.

The elevator is filled with us all.

The professors and the interns

The nurses and the students

The patients and their spouses

The mommies and their babies

Late at night we family-people talk.

We are tired and we let our guard down.

We tell our tiny stories as we descend 12 floors.

I listen to the tragedy and feel nothing.

We know we can stop when the doors open.

We return to our invisible state.