At four am
the ward computer
gives up on me
and strings of numbers
merge like autumn rain.
A nameless man
has died.
His next-bed neighbour's
still trying
to make sense of life.
There are five
still waiting
to be seen.
And eight more hours to go
before I sleep.
The next is eighteen
and blue.
Her mother knows about CF
more than we do.
Years of fear and pain
have now become
an overwhelming anger.
And I, about to lose
the last of my compassion,
pretend
for the billionth of a second
that I can hear the rain.
Katerina Pavenski Third-year Resident Internal Medicine University of Toronto