cold hands at 3 a.m.

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temporal

credit katsetsuna

‘the heart beat is arrhythmic
pressure erratic
change medication
wait and monitor’

close and distant relatives
crowd, stare and wait
’shukria doctor saheb,
may god bless you’

the patient is slipping,
will not see another dawn
if i speak up now
wailing will start
if i hold my peace

the night in quiet

                   will pass
we treat
till dollar tinted hope
runs dry

death wins arguments
no disinfectant can cleanse
the ghoulish ward odors
ah, well! i will go and
have that tea and samosa
perhaps this splitting headache

will fade away

‘where is the chart?’
the nurse shuffles from her station
handing the chart, asks
‘why are your hands so cold?’

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