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By John I. Blair

Alone in the hospital room,
My thoughts composed
Of fear and faith, of pain and hope,
I lie staring at the blank door,
Waiting for what will come in.
There is a cushion for my head,
But none for my soul.
I clutch my blanket to my chest,
Trying to be calm,
Praying the loud clock will hurry,
Praying it will not.
Naked but for my hospital gown,
I have only memories for defense:
I remember these people are here to help;
And the world is, truly, full of love.
But love isnít always milk and cookies,
Or kisses and caresses.
Sometimes itís the hiss of an oxygen mask,
Or a needle's sharp stab . . .
Cold comforts,
But comforts just as real as hugs.

John I. Blair, 1/14/2002

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