Some intern christened me Post-Op-Who-Limps
With-Three-Drains, but in twenty-five steps I'm
Past the nursing station, ice machine and
Clean laundry; ten steps more and I'm home free;
Off the ward, shuffling by on-call cells with
M.D.'s-to-be asleep in cheap bunkbeds.
Breathless, I reach my goal; the P.T. ramp
Surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows
Sealed against signs of spring. Yes, seasons changed
During my eight day incarceration;
Outside six stories down, magnolia trees
Dressed in pink-white wings guard a vagrant snug
In coarse newspaper blankets; my envy
Seethes, that lucky guy, he found a way out.