Overheard: “We are all God’s poems”
Some of the poems are sick.
For them, breathing is suddenly work.
Some of the poems are well for now.
They sit near the bed and talk.
Or pace the hospital hallway or call
and get choked up on the phone.
Some are far away, thinking of you.
Some are wishing they could cure cancer.
And some of them are nurses
whose work is to access the plastic port
implanted just below the collarbone,
pushing a needle into that tiny heart.