Jay Ramsay

WARD 726

We are four wounded men
in a quadrant of beds
waiting to heal, not drown
uncertain in the waiting as we were
before the wound was
when we were sleeping
uncertain, perhaps, of anything.

Vigorous hope stirs us.
One of us has given part of his liver
for his son. We all want to live.
St. Christopher works in software,
Mark has a son in Australia,
John has been stripped to his name.
The other man is Greek, Costas. For him
it hasn’t happened yet.

We are four wounded men
under our politeness and charm
beside the epidurol dripping morphine
in an anytime siesta haze –
where the pain waits.
We each face it in our own way
or don’t, and our pain is the same.

For everyman, his crucifixion;
for everyman, his rising again.