Where Does It Hurt?

Help me, you say,
I’m dying, you say,
and the doctors in white
tell you No,
whisper it
in the hallways
while we hold your cooling
hands.  Where does it hurt?
they ask, and you reply,
But everywhere is not enough,
not Specific Enough,
so you beg
as your son arranges the headphones
and Van Morrison works for a while,
lifts you away
from the feet that shuffle
up and down vanilla hallways –
the night staff
and the morning staff, the mid-
morning staff and the ones in green
with trays and, Help me, you say
to anyone who will listen,
so your son begs
on your behalf
and the doctor
calls the specialist,
No Diagnosis, they nod
as they hand you
your Tylenol.  We pace
up and down vanilla hallways
where it is always brighter than daylight,
back and forth across the walkway that links
the North Tower to the South,
cars passing underneath,
and where we pass on our way
into the LA night,
driving nowhere,
or to an all night diner
where we will plan the heist of you,
your rescue,
your escape,
and where we will make the promise
that when our time comes
we will be ready,
because in this story
a man lay dying
as the white winged angels
spend their days in ethics committees
and passing out Tylenol.