Those paths you’d rather not take?
Well, someone’s on them. A woman in a fake hospital,
a medical money collecting agency that squeezes every dime
out of crime against the ill: negligence, incompetence
unkind roughness—lifting my friend by her arm
making her cry. Abandoning her, bed bound, 14 hours at a time.
The nerve of these guys. Don’t spoil a pretty day by looking
too close at what we do to the isolated few, or the ones waiting
to die. Oh God, line up your friends, you do need help if old and ill.
The lovely patio sits unused as no one is assigned to wheel
patients outside for sun and air—the look of desperation is
despair. It’s come to this? Rehab for a wound in a prison-like
atmosphere. Shame on us and our for-profit care.
Meanwhile, over at the half-way house, those waiting
for prison and those just getting out, mingle in a half-jail
a half-house half hell, some held indefinitely, without
bail, without trial. Nine men to a dorm room,
no open windows allowed. Yes, be careful of that, don’t
let an illness out of hand send you there for your what-fors.
I might be frightened of this crowd of tough guys and
hard-looking women, but I know them from my teacher days,
the kids against the wall, the kids in dark clothes, the ones a little
hungry, a little confused. It’s them in their adult versions.
They’re worn down now, tired of the mess of it, the rules
and bedtimes, the petty spite of the not caged toward the caged ins.
Not fun. Not fun.