Copyright © 2000, John E. McGuigan
In that rushing quiet when nothing moves
Except the unreal sounds
Of coal chutes and rocking-horse hooves
And make-shift pitcher's mounds,
I sit expectant, motionless,
And stare at an ugly sound
Of numbered, open-mouthed breaths.
The malignant, reddish purple
Glare of sores
Sneering from beneath
A hospital gown
Mocks my helpless frown.