Full Moon ER
The back door buzzer rings
a sound like stepping on a cat's tail
a rural hospital; twenty beds
and whatever comes through the ER
Our census under the influence of the moon.
Dog bites; warning shots fired from canines
to kids oblivious of grinding heat or growls
Children let loose, to play barefoot
in landmine yards; bleed and cry
hug dirty, crescent wounds.
Mama swings a mean wooden cane; no one
could drive her swollen belly here
but fifty kin pull in behind the ambulance
trade stories and cigarettes in the hall.
Babies named for luxury cars
wheeze in their mother's arms
wave tiny fists of resentment
Drunks who lost an argument with a curb
lean tilted, feel no pain
recite their mantra of "just one beer".
Soon the regulars answer the moon's pull
Curtis, in sunglasses at midnight
plays his blood sugar like a slot machine
Jackpot 500, his prize, an Insulin drip
and a free ride to dialysis in the morning.
Eula, tall as a Redwood, with measurements
out of a fairy tale; the police took her door
off where she fell
the EMT's sweat; like unloading a cord of wood
but her feet point straight and north
a good sign.
Miss Aldene's B/P is normal,
but she asks can we check it yet again
Fine says the doc; this time
put the cuff around her neck
He looks tired; thirty years tethered
like a mule, to circle the same ring
of midnight miseries.
Once we had a doc who wore $500 suits
and taps on his heels
Stated he had landed in Hee Haw Hell
and left soon after.
Some stay; a gentle Indian doctor
has seen too much war; gifted
but pronounces the letter V as a W
Softly he asks for "wital signs"
or how many times did you "womit"
we choke, strangle and swallow laughter
grateful he is here.
The last fish hook of the night is removed
from the forehead of a true "Bud's" sportsman
The doc smiles "another life saved"
shuffles off to his room as we tuck
the regulars into bed, flick off the lights.
Old equipment, short supplies, tired staff
while the dollars swim upstream to the cities
We are the yard child of Big Medicine
begging on the back steps
for the right to be here; where no one else
wants to be
Welcome, to the Hotel California.
about the poet:
Ann Marie Bouet aka Tonto is a nice, Irish, Catholic girl raised in Queens, N.Y. Moved to Miami to overcome these handicaps and is now able to say "sorry you have the wrong number" in two languages; currently lives in rural Ga. where her neighbors believe she is a member of the witness protection program.