Hospital Food

Hospital Food


All day I have been waiting for the first sandwich
in the lunch of dreams.

There is a nurse wearing red shoes who brings me ice cream
in the middle of the night, feeds me like a child.

"Son," she whispers. "The elevator doors of the future
are closing tight on your foot." Often she will sing to me,

teach me the lyrics of obscure show tunes. "Nurse," I
asked one night. "Do you want to learn the songs I know

The songs of horses exploding, broken glass ,light breaking
through used coffee filters, and empty paper bags?"

She leaned over me and whispered,"Young Indian boy, you
are stumbling off the escalator of desire." In the bed

next to me in the semi-private room paid for by the BIA,
a sixteen-year-old white boy with a bad heart. He sleeps

under the oxygen tent at night. His parents have become
afraid of him, send him postcards from San Francisco,

Disneyland, Sea World. They sent him a MONOPOLY game and
we play until he runs out of breath. "It's the money,"

he says. "The money is too damn heavy." At night I lay
awake listening to his breathing, measure it against mine.

Some nights I stand over him, stare down through the clear
plastic of his tent. "This is your temporary atmosphere,"

I whisper to him. "Your body is lying to itself 45 times a
minute." Every breath is a treaty. One night I crawled under

the sheets with him, placed my dark hand on his pale, scarred
chest. His heartbeat felt like coins dropping into a collection

plate. "Young white boy," I whispered. "When you are gone,
I will need your steel-toed boots." His breath slowed,

his eyes opened and he said,"I understand your needs, but it
is too late. Your right foot is bleeding profusely."


Sherman Alexie..........from Old Shirts & New Skins