For journalists, bad news is an
addiction. They are drawn to it and are
powerless against its lure. They are animals feeding on the steaming carcass of
humanity. Scavengers of dignity gnawing on fresh grief, all the while insuring they do not use the salad fork by
mistake, for they are professionals.
The hippos were incredibly fast but knocked over every hurdle.
The gazelles were leaps and bounds faster than the squirrels who kept
changing direction.
The Giraffes were neck and neck but only with each other.
The mules refused to run, and the turtles haven’t yet crossed the finish
line.
The cheetahs were disqualified.
The bears seemed to have difficulty getting around the elephants, who turned
out to be lane hogs.
One snake stretched across the lanes pretending he was the finish line. It didn't end well.
How many Mondays will I get in my
life? How many sick days or snow
days? How many awards or trophies will I
win? How many beers will I drink? How many close calls will I have? How close to the edge will I get before
someone pulls me back?
Do I thank them or charge them
overtime?
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.
After Hours
The hum of the lights has stopped.
The paper jam in the copier can wait for tomorrow.
Night janitors empty waste baskets and check coin returns on the vending
machines for change.
The whiteboard in the conference room tells a grim tale of loss sales and
poor judgement.
A Biplane sputters overhead and spots a lone figure on a ledge of the office
building.
Nothing they can do now.
