T wo white doors open to reveal
One of many identical white corridors.
The hall, the people, the walls themselves
Have been marinated in an odor:
An empty, resigned smell,
Of sweat, urine, and never-ending sleep.
The hums, hisses and beeps of heart monitors
And oxygen tanks underlie the calculated laughter
On sitcoms and the roar of crowded baseball stadiums,
Masquerading as real life on the patients television sets.
Florescent lights in the hall wash everything bare;
Nothing can hide in the antiseptic brightness.
Light in the rooms is as dim as the souls
Within wasting bodies that lie on the beds,
Like crumpled, discarded paper dolls
Your wistful eyes follow as we hurry
Past room after room. In your City of Death
Our light footsteps pound on the white linoleum floor.