(Image Credit)

It’s a small army I see
two or three days a week.

While it’s dark and cold
we march in uniform,
feet shod with shoes ready
to keep a steady
clip for the next thirteen hours.

The building we raid looms tall and overwhelming,
pregnant with arrhythmias
calls for help to the bathroom
bowel and bladder accidents
vomitting
fevers
complaints
pain
hope
joy
fears
laughter
tears.

But in we march
giving away our days to
the drug addict
the laboring woman
the feverish child
the suicidal man
the fractured old lady
the hemiparetic senior
the wounded, retired warrior.