The doors breathe open.
Lou comes grinning,
patting his gut.
“Stage Four, baby.
Liver lit up like Christmas.”
The ward claps.
Hands on his IV pole
like it’s a prize bull.
“You’re going out in style,”
Ray rasps, gravel in his chest.
The nurse smooths Lou’s sheet.
“Doctor says you won’t see Sunday.”
She smiles.
Santiago barks from Bed 12.
“Lucky bastard.
They say my kidneys half gone.
Ain’t that some shit luck?”
His sister crosses herself,
pockets his wedding ring.
“We’ll pawn it tomorrow.”
He laughs until he coughs.
Jeanie hums fever in Room 9.
She won’t eat,
won’t drink.
The others stroke her hair.
“You’re glowing, sugar.
Won’t be long.”
She shuts her eyes.
The room hushes,
like a church before song.
Mr. Green in the corner—
once a preacher,
lost his house,
lost his teeth—
grins at the drip.
“Ain’t no mortgages in the graveyard,”
he says.
The IV beeps amen.
Then the bad news.
Bobby Joe woke up pink.
Bloodwork clean.
“They’re sending him home,”
a nurse says.
The ward stills.
Lou shakes his head.
“Poor bastard.”
They line up by his bed.
Hands heavy on his shoulders.
“It’ll come back,” Ray whispers.
“Or something else will.”
Bobby Joe stares at his hands,
alive, trembling,
emptier than death.
Outside—sirens,
a dog fight,
debt collectors banging doors.
Bills like coffins.
Children folding hunger into paper cranes.
Inside, the rails cold,
the sheets sharp with starch,
the IV humming stay, stay.
