by Louis Faber
The tinny sound of the TV
from the ward room signaled
the beginning of each day
and lights out, and we knew
the nurse would soon appear..
We had all traded
our olive drab’s, camo
and khakis for the blue-
and white-striped uniform
with the V.A. Medical Center
neatly imprinted on the pants top
and robe, lest we forget
the name of our prison.
We mark days by pills
and dressing changes
as one of the smiling doctors
poked, prodded
and said little.
Sarge, in bed one,
was pushing 80, half-toothless,
his left foot now gone
to diabetes and alcohol,
“matching stumps at last”
he laughed amid his humming.
Dave, in bed two, had seen his knee
taken by the surgeon this time,
“they are eating me in pieces”
he said, “at least the landmine
did its work at once.”
I had bed three, my arm encased
in plaster from knuckles to shoulder
wanting only to scratch
an elbow totally beyond reach.
Johnny was the clown,
a human torpedo he said,
stuck for at least a month
on his stomach or side
as the new rods in his spine
took hold, “at least” he said
“when you don’t feel nothing
it don’t hurt so much.”
Each morning we’d wait
for the shift change
when all the nurses
would disappear into their lounge
to handoff notes and patients
and Sarge would take up
his guard post outside their door
and Dave, and Tommy from the ward
across the hall, would
align their chairs and wait for me
to drop my good arm
as they raced wheel to wheel
to the soda machines
by the elevators, loser buying,
with just enough time to get back
before rounds and lunch.
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Louis Faber is a poet and writer. His work has appeared in several anthologies and in Cantos, Alchemy Spoon, New Feathers Anthology, Flora Fiction, Dreich (Scotland), Prosetrics, Atlanta Review, Glimpse, Rattle, Cold Mountain Review, Pearl, Midstream, European Judaism, The South Carolina Review and Worcester Review, among many others, and has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
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