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Calvary Cemetery
I see what happens to the innocent.
I pass their rooms on my morning walk.
Stuck in bed, waiting for a CNA
to change them, dress them, carry them into
a wheelchair for the day. Remote control,
telephone, lamp, maybe a get well card.
No one here is getting well.
Diversey is busy: delivery trucks, buses,
cars, sidewalk scattered, people speeding
to the Brown Line stop. Watch your step.
Your pulse. Your cerebral cortex.
Your myelin. You could end up
at the Regal. Chrome IV stand glinting.
Half-moon tennis balls attached
to your walker. Cotton hospital
gown hung over the body you trusted.
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