A neap tide of patients
with self-inflicted wounds
washes down Big Hill
from Jackson County.

In the waiting room already
are those extracted from fights,
guys on girls, guys on guys,
kids on big hairy dogs.

The phone rings endlessly
with a wan, wee voice asking,
“Billie Jo, is that you?”
And the triage nurse winces.

Some are already bandaged,
crutched, astride wheelchairs,
holding crystal IV bottles, canes,
clumping on orthopedic boots.

Others are newly wounded, scarred,
spotted with their blood,
or others’.  No distinctions
here in the kingdom of pain.

As night deepens, more sufferers
Appear at the electric doors,
holding out broken hands,
glaring from eyes swollen to slits.

The tempo of the nurses’ dance increases
as the windows glaze black.
Some will see the cracked dawn,
Others drive home on dark lanes.

Only the worn doctors
and haggard nurses will note
the new daylight.  And one lorn
crackhead seeking a fix by sun-up.

                        ###