Poem: Emergency Room

I stayed up all night with some bad food in my gut. Not a good thing for a kid who trends towards eating disordered and manic ecclesiastical  existentialist shortly after midnight. I must have conducted three poems in a row of uninterrupted writing all about my Grandfather, Bob. This one fits the bill for the upcoming theme of our campus’s art journal, Lingua. The theme is Ephemera. 
 
To you Robert!
 
 

Emergency Room

 
I haven’t spent much time here,
And so little 
Compared to you.
 
Nineteen hours  is it?
72 years 
You tell me 
And Everything is temporary,
But not memory
Or meaning.
 
I can still remember 
The first four hours;
The only hours
And our four last
When they said,
“It’s out of our power.”
How every hour felt infinite.
 
But it wasn’t. 
You’re still 72 and something,
Plus those nineteen eternal hours
And I’m 23.
 
In a month  it’s my birthday.
How could I forget the day?
November 18th
When minutes passed away
Like helium retreating 
From a ballon.
 
And like you, 
I’m forgetting
About the color of that
Hovering, “get well soon.”
Was it green
Or blue?
 
 
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