“A report from the Hospital,” Wisława Szymborska, RIP.
We used matches to draw lots: who would visit him.
And I lost. I got up from our table.
Visiting hours were just about to start.
When I said hello he didn’t say a word.
I tried to take his hand — he pulled it back
like a hungry dog that won’t give up his bone.
He seemed embarrassed about dying.
What do you say to someone like that?
Our eyes never met, like in a faked photograph.
He didn’t care if I stayed or left.
He didn’t ask about anyone from our table.
Not you, Barry. Or you, Larry. Or you, Harry.
My head started to ache. Who’s dying on who?
I went on- about modern medicine and the three violets in a jar.
I talked about the sun and faded out.
It’s a good thing they have stairs to run down.
It’s a good thing they have gates to let you out.
It’s a good thing you guys are waiting at our table.
The hospital smell makes me sick.
