The strong smell of Bleach

 

From several states away

Not knowing becomes magnified

The questions are many, answers few

Concerns fester,

 

From this far away
I believe the doctors are morons
the nurses incompetent

And the crossword left abandoned at the nurse’s station
needs a four-letter word following, CODE _ _ _ _.

 

The hallway hums like a nervous hive, fluorescent bees chewing. I’m states away, squinting at the buzz, trying to catch someone who'll answer the phone. Questions breed like fruit flies in the bowl—tiny, endless, evasive.

The intercom coughs. A shoe squeaks. A clipboard yawns. Faith feels like a thrift-store coat with someone else’s name stitched crooked. 

At the nurse’s station, the crossword waits like a locked door to a different room. Four letters after CODE, the square grins: BLUE, I mutter, and the sound drops an decibel . Maybe the answer is always BLUE—breath held.

Moron. Incompetent. Words clang like pan lids. But somewhere, a hand that knows the map draws a slow circle and says: here. Somewhere, a tired person gets it right without applause, and the night guard takes a break and drinks a paper cup of silence.

The crossword closes like a curtain. I’m still on the other side of the continent, holding a pencil that won’t reach. So I write the things I can’t ask on the margins: WHO // WHEN // WHAT NOW.

 

 Hello?