Pediatric Ward

In the Pediatric Ward
On the second or third floor
(I never really knew),
I would bumble past
The gray-carpeted halls and empty rooms,
Accompanied by my metal stalk,
Which held the sack of intravenous liquid
Tethered to my wrist,

And usually I would go
Over to the game room,
Devoid of other children,
And get my fill of Donkey Kong
Before returning to eat a lunch
Prepared by gloved hands
In an unshared room,
Or watch the television
Jutting out of the opposite wall like a turret.

It was only after someone from the family
Had come and left,
And orderlies, after duties,
Had laid their fingers down on the light switch,
That I missed the steady clicking
Of the clock in my bedroom,
Palely substituted by the chatter
Of nocturnal nurses.



Overheard Conversation

Dave was mechanically chewing
To the rhythm of his music, which plugged in
Near the vein flowing past his temple,
While Anthony tilted up his chin,
Allowing saccharine liquid to funnel down into his gut,
And the man with slicked hair and blue apron
Took an order for two slices, with pepperonis
(The steel edge of the glass counter
Pressing into his thick forearm.)
Behind me, a high voice complained
About her sister, who had a face
Sort of like a cat's, but looser, fuller,
Who had a habit
Of furtively filling lunch bags
With her acrid insides,
Acid scalding the soft tissue of her esophagus,
Interrupted by gasps for air.
The voice's owner was the one
Who had to ascertain
That bathroom trips would not conclude
In the hazy, putrid hint of vomit
Reeking from the back of her sister's throat,
Staining, dissolving her back teeth.
She was the one thanked
With a barrage of expletives and scorn,
Seeking her friends' sympathy, in a pizzeria
Where icy drafts were loitering in
Through the open doorway.



Window

Right now it's dark
On the other side of the window,
So it opts against transparency,
Instead playing off the contents of the kitchen,
Dividing the pink-clothed table
With the white lines that keep each pane separate.

From this angle,
The only hint of me
Is my pen strafing in the corner,
While a crowd of broken nutshells
Consoling themselves,
And a tall glass,
Like a transparent chimney rock,
Long empty from my thirst,
Are more noticeable.

I won't ask those sheets of blown sand
To reveal the backstage of night,
Because the dreary, half-illumined leaves
Resting outside
Might remind me that the rest of the family
Is asleep, that
If I pay attention to the reception of my ears,
I'll hear only my slick pen sliding on its paper
And the lonely drone of midnight machines.


Leland Zhi is currently living in Wayne, New Jersey, where he is finishing his senior year of high school. He is an active member of his school's literary club, and has enjoyed writing for many years already. His favorite poets include Robert Pinsky and Billy Collins.