People on charge like phones
Some bounce back
Others lean low into loss
Drips drip, beats beep
And in between migraine bulbs
and Grecian blue curtains that open—close
There’s Ward 38
With views to the shore
The lighthouse is pointed out
By only those who know
Beneath this ward of last gasps
Babies find guardians and first breaths
Death rattles as index fingers
Press hearts into newborn cheeks
Elsewhere others weep
In relative rooms
That try to feel like home
But never do
But never will
Bad news always looms
Coffees and tears stir
Sugarcanes and salt lakes
The doctor delivers again
words fall, worlds swell
Palm Tree Poetry 