The ER

Margaret V.Doran

The room is small
it should be sterile, antiseptic, but
          it's not
there are nicks in the paint
          from some hurried passage of
                    necessary equipment
and black rubber streaks
          where cords have hung
                    and swung
          so long they have staked a visual claim
      of permanence
and next to me, some spots on the wall of . . .
          iodine, maybe,
                    or blood?
I don't want to know
Please don't tell me what that smell is,
          Either!

The walls are the color of . .
          The watery blood that flowed from
          The veins of the goat I loved
          When she died of cancer:
Pale rose-beige, meant to be clam, yet
Speaking to me only of death.

One narrow bed with rails
and a crash cart with labels
but I can read only one drawer:
          "female cath kit"
          "specimen bottles"
I don't want to read the ones I can't quite see.

CPR equipment hangs prominently on one wall,
a sink with arched-high faucet
and liquid hand soap strong as lye
a phone, a box of laytex gloves
some mechanisms I don't know
a built-in cabinet for the "gowns"
          and towels and washclothes
a double light switch
one small, round, four-legged stool
          on casters, with a rip in the seat
          a throne for the doctor to straddle
                    (Doesn't she deserve better?)
a huge foot-control waste can
          lined with a large, black bag
          big enough for a body
and one large, blue button emblazoned
          "CODE CALL"

Please, nobody push that button.

If nobody pushes the button,
I think I may yet go home!

Copyright © 1999 Margaret V. Doran All rights reserved.
If you enjoyed this poem, please send her an e-mail here.

Updated November 21, 1999
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