late nights (a sonnet) eyes leisurely close beneath bright, white light. sickly sanitation smells seeped with blood dripping through IVs. Nurses work the night. Stitching wounds, visions of nonna’s quilt bud, slumbering under her stitches of string. Sapped, fatigued, spent, drained–crave caffeine increase. In scrubs, twelve hour hospital shifts they cling, busily work, generate elbow grease. Yet, guests with obituaries written patients in death beds, coffins nearly closed. Envy enervated nurses–smitten with their vigor of youth, undecomposed. In caskets, zombies attempt, wrought with pain fight to open eyes, they may live again Lorin Bucur
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