PARADOX

It's December 27th in the Emergency Room.

Hours pass
     with little change;

A thin man wrapped in the tattered remains
     of someone's discarded coat
     huddles in one corner
     then shifts to another
     cautiously clinging to the warmth
     of the cold, molded plastic, bathroom tiled, place.

Two girls
     one four, the other six,
     bounce and flit
     from stranger to stranger
     announcing with excitement
     they're wearing their Christmas clothes;
     asking names;
     asking whys;
     hungrily glancing at the toy my toddler embraces.

A tall boy stumbles across the threshold
     clutching his side;
     blood, crusted in crimson globs
     is randomly disbursed across his face.

Children gather, pooling their change to share a small bag of chips
     from the vending machine.

"There's vomit on the floor." calls someone to the clerk.

     Housekeeping is paged.

     They're paged again.

     The foul mess begins to dry.

A young woman excitedly displays her growing collection of aluminum cans
     to her stone-faced companion;
     words gush from her mouth in English, then Spanish, and English again
     as if the two
     were interchangeable.

The Old Ones
     dressed in a montage
     of axle greased shirts, polyester uniforms, home patched boots,
          and hand made shawls
     sit in silence.

     The patience of Job
     was something they learned
     long lines ago.

I have no patience.
My child is ill.

Somewhere behind the counter
     where clean people
     dressed in white coats and scrubs
     shuffle through papers
     in short-lived appearances
Is my husband
     pulling the strings
     letting them know
     we don't belong here;
     letting them know
     we cannot wait;
And as we are ushered ahead of the throng
     into the halls
     where gurneys are strung
     an infant rolls by
     in it's own plastic box;
     a drug addict moans;
     and a child, no more than four,
     comes smiling
     into the pediatric room.
     The burns on her feet, so deep and infected, they may never heal.

I want to take away the burns.
I want to clean the clothes,
     wipe the vomit from the speckled tiles,
     hand out blankets,
     feed the hunger,
     and hold the people in my arms
     until the pain
     disappears.

But it won't.
And I can't.

My daughter is ill.
     She is all I can hold.
     She is all I can feed.
     She is all I can clean.

Life is not fair.

     I leave
promising myself I will not forget;
praying we will never need
to return;

And the smiling child
cries out
in pain.


December 28, 1995