Thread: The Man in Hallway 4B (Adult Content)

It's been a while; but I thought that this best exemplified the disposable writing that I have at hand. This was my impression of an introverted man in a hospital waiting room.

The Man in Hallway 4B

Four out of five doctors squeeze his balls,
From pulse to pulse,
From ball to ball;
And he’s sitting on pleather in the hall
Waiting for the nurse to call.

He peers through a keyhole to see what’s inside it,
And blocks out the halo of light from within.

Four out of five doctors take his blood,
From tube to tube,
From vein to vein;
And he’s sitting on pleather in the hall
Waiting for the nurse to call.

He knows there is something growing inside him,
And inhales the sterile air of the morgue.

Four out of five days have gone from his eyes,
From black to black,
From night to night;
And he’s sitting on pleather in the hall
Waiting for the nurse to call.

And he’s laying on cotton in the room.
And he’s covered in cotton in the hall.
And he’s draped in silk in the tomb.
And he’s invisible under the pall.

And he’s sitting on pleather in the hall
Waiting for the nurse to call.

I like the progression and where it leads (however morbid) - the refrain works throughout, but not sure at the end since he died and is "in the tomb", is he still waiting in the hall for the nurse to call?

I thought this was going to be a description of the man, a character sketch, but I never got the details of what he looked like and was like as a person, only what was done to him, the medical externals, then what happens to him - no sympathy for him was generated, he was as if seen from afar -

good writing though

---todd

Well, I certainly hope he's still alive. As hackneyed as it is, I was just making an observation on where we're all going.

I tried getting as much tactile information I could into the language. Owing the recent conversations, I've grown aware that people spend much too much time complaining about how they're treated, especially in hospitals. I thought about the millions of little caresses that are had through one's life, even when we're dying. Laying on a hospital bed, awaiting my final hours, I imagine myself being aware of the human hands that made the cloth that touches my skin. I imagine knowing that I will be laid in silk made by human hands, my body made invisible by my pall bearers.

It's perhaps a bit sad, or fitting, that the last hours of a person's existence are filled with such human efforts to respect, to love, and to care. And, looking at the man sitting in the waiting room at the hospital, I thought that after a long life, he was waiting to be called to that time where we find out that we were never really alone.

I don't think the man needs sympathy, because he was just me. In a good fifty years. But he was, in essence, me.

Those are my thoroughly confusing thoughts on the matter.

I'm glad you enjoyed reading the poem.