The Detachment
Rochelle Hope Mehr
With a sick parent in the hospital.
Starting out with the noblest of intentions.
Still myself with Bach's French Suites sallying forth in my head.
Trying to break past
The grim scrim of beeping monitors punctuating the air.
Then (fatal consequence of sensory overload?)
Finding my legs lockstepped into the staccato rhythm
Which motors the place.
The robotic knee jerk
Which is - one might say -
The heart of the place.
Moving further and further into the march.
Farther and farther
From the more natural rhythms of Bach.
And losing my pulse
