New Year’s Eve; Old Presbyterian Hospital

The gift shop is closed. Only a graveyard
Skeleton crew in the pharmacy, a solitary
Cleaner orbiting a mop across the skyway.
Below lights blinking red green red through
Dark and frigid silence. One more year.

One more night too: cachectic, edematous,
Distended—ammonia levels rising, uremia
Lurking, choking up coffee grounds, bile.
Unlike the house staff in stunted white coats,
I have volunteered for duty. One more year.

One more night for my colleagues to enjoy
Their families, to tend their annual rituals.
How assuring it must be, almost. While I linger
Alone in the austere chapel—not to pray, no,
Merely to take my own stock. One more year.

In the warrens and cellars beneath the pews,
Hidden from stained glass and veined marble
Rest catacombs of iron lungs, Blakemore tubes,
Harrington rods that will never uncurl a spine.
Also ghosts—so many now. One more year.

How they haunt: the ones who died because
We knew so little then, and those because we
Knew so much—and that nine-year-old girl
I lost as an intern and still don’t know why.
She is with me now. Again. One more year.

Reprinted with permission. First appeared in Hektoen.