I.C.U.

--by Sophia Baradarian

Clock strikes 2.
Again.
Truth is,
no one’s ever believed
they’d be sitting there
in the tacky
hospital-issue blue chair
backed against
a starkly lit corridor.
Where the droplets outside
batter glass panels
brushing white ceiling,
to glimpse the strained face of
a sewn-up girlfriend
or catch the huffing rasp
of a dying, dead father.
One last time.
2:03 AM.
No wish made unto that pale,
pink candle of
a little girl’s
birthday cake,
enveloped in billowing folds of
vanilla buttercream
was for the steady
hiss...pump
of Mama’s
mechanical lungs.
Her timed breaths.
Clocking out,
much too soon.
The occasional
scuttle of sneakers
against white vinyl.
2:05.
Time’s up.
And…repeat.
Stifling scent of antiseptic,
shuffled papers,
slivers of death
murmured about
in voices so soft,
they fail to disturb
the weeping ghosts
hugging the walls.