Quiet clouds of white gray paint mixing with the cardboard air. The station's desk seems just a subway full of papers piled high in helplessness. Nurses slip from room to room, from bed to bed, as if the hands of ticking clock are running them through circles of a paragon they recognize as forms of gods asleep, snoring through this agony, when suns should push those cold potato moons away with silver forks of noble gesture rusting in this universe. Their fingers are assigned the doom, diaper change of grief and sorrow clinging to a cotton day. Pinning down hot metal tears.
Rubber gloves become routine.
Rolled on thumbs like condoms over penises in rapes of human dignity. Staring at finality. Rather quite the opposite. It stares at us, sucks the marrow from crumbled bone. Here we have the march of self-less starching every uniform.