Night Shift

Issue 14 | Summer 2025 | Jennifer Randall Hotz

 

Lap after lap, I hobble around
the hospital ward at 3 a.m.,
wave to the guy in room 406,

his gaunt face peeking out
of a towel draped over his head,
unable to hide the wink

he throws my way, past
the pale lady in room 404,
so delicate she looks more hologram

than human, near room 402, where
a man protests being poked awake
to eat the stale graham crackers

the aide insists he consume,
round the corner to a window
festooned with fake garland, twinkle

lights that lost their luster long ago,
rest in front of a poster featuring
nurses’ faces popping out of the center

of more than a dozen daisies, as if
at any moment they might break out into song,
carol us through whatever comes next.