CHILD OF THE RED TOE
David E. Cowen
he watches it blink
curious in his pain
the cord from the light reaching a blue blinking box
unabashed by the chiding of the white angels
he pulls at the gauze on his foot
grabs at the clear tape holding the drip tube in his arm
pulling harder with each sharp sting
gray pants change his sheets
stained from his sweat and urine
he waves as they smile
the mask tight on their faces
in and out the needles go
on and on the fluids flow
a day of perpetual strangers
probing, pinching, pulling, poking
bitter pricks on his skin
mumbling behind the protection of their cloth
a woeful monotone
into the darker rooms
the juice to make his bones glow
he sleeps in the dim light of his own inner shadow
as a lady with a coat watches and takes notes
still the red toe glows
faint lines from older patches
lined on his skin like the tracks of old rivers
he is connected, like the television
plugged into walls and boxes
into charts and nurses
all looking for something not shown on his face
they enter and he cries
they leave the room,
he waves goodbye
and whimpers in his sleep.
