the astringent smell
of it.
the whiteness of it.
the seriousness of it all.
the hope.
the waiting rooms,
the little chapel,
the morgue,
the receptionist desk.
the elevators
up and down,
the arrows in the hall,
the glass windows,
the pulled shades,
the trayed food,
green jello,
flowers.
the separations between
beds.
the stone faced doctors
and harried
nurses,
the machines beeping,
the red button to push,
and then there's
the living, least we
forget them,
straddling eternity,
almost dead.
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