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What do we do with all these shells
Women and men of the wards?
Feet that barely touch the floors
Bedside vigils waning
Sentences remaining
Embedded in abandoned find-a-words?

The sweeping lines
Of disinfectant gray
The sure chirping of machines
That never goes away

What do we do with all these shells
Men and women of the floors?
Tucked in tightly and borne on wheels
Every day is nightly
The flowers are like lightning
Bright before the sound of things to say

The soft shoe shuffle
And clattering of trays
The steady hand of medics
Who haven’t slept for days

What do we do with all these shells
Curled and bearing echoes of themselves?
The gowns and curtains all look the same
The city view is stunning
Someone out there is running
To move their car before
It’s towed away

~ Brendan Bonsack

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