99 pink roses

some tightly kept
some opened
some in small buds to be enjoyed
in days
two purple and grey pigeons
one turquoise plastic hospital cup
that sits alone
cheerful yet sad
envious of the life exuding sweetly
from the pink roses
the warm bench it sits upon
tries to remind it
you’re not alone
we’re both here
and soon someone will pick you up
take you back
“Shut up” says the cup
I stand and stare tiredly at the roses
the pigeons fly over my head
I don’t care if they shit on me
or if the roses smell sweetly
shine if you will sun
rain if you like sky
blow if you feel wind
Hello blossom
my grandma says as she walks along the green line
outside the ICU
blue night gowns
tied with white strings at the back
apple juice with a straw and vanilla and apple pudding
the slow breathing in and out of plastic tubes
IV drips
pink roses can’t mask the stink of death
I tell the machine beeping on my right
there are no fools here
we hear it in the halls
we taste it like metal and hand sanitizer in the elevators
we see it in the flowers wrapped in purple paper and plastic clenched in crying palms
we smell it in the roast beef with brown gravy that doesn’t move
the flowered Kleenex boxes
the empty beds
the shitty yellow artwork
pretending it’s happy in the hall
You’re not happy!
I wish to shout
we’re all bloody miserable!
room with a view
beds turned away
people shitting in silver pans
people come here to live or die
one simply cannot shall not
romance death

It will not do.

Author: Janne Robinson

Editor: Renée Picard

Image: William Neuheisel at Flickr