Poem #7



Oh you cold clerks, you patrons of the pill,
a mother suffers a doctor’s script,
and you would shake the last cent
from her–where leaves are empty from
money boughs, so too is endless silver
from a frozen spring that will not sputter.


At every turn, in the waiting room,
on the bed, on the roads, at the light
of red the word insurance bites
into the drum of a deaf ear.


Yet the drones of care,
health provider, physician
linger in the fear of affordable medication,
the only thing insured
is she is never cured;


so we may stay so sick,
for the illness we may never lick,
there is a healthy hospital.


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