After my blood’s drawn,
I need food and drink,
but pause at art
in the hospital lobby;
none of these paintings
are of blood,
though one has deep red.
people rush by coming and going,
sick or worried about somebody—
a few cubists,
some colorful landscapes,
nearby a sign:
Blood Drawing This Way>>>
In the cafeteria over coffee and eggs,
I look around,
some of us are healthier than others,
blood still flows,
some at higher pressure—
weather news on TV—
high pressure here,
another tropical low with hurricanes
brewing in the Caribbean,
Saint Thomas and Barbuda already
blown apart in Hurricane Irma,
landscape denuded, houses flattened.
I’m reminded of Derek Walcott’s
Caribbean landscapes;
Beach at Vieux Fort,
what will happen to his Saint Lucia
if the next hurricane hits there,
(if he were still alive, he’d write a poem
and paint it)
islands’ lifeblood blown away,
because money mattered
more than global warming.
That storm blew nonstop
three days and nights.
Somebody may paint it one day,
but it will it have
Walcott’s reds, greens, tropical blues?
What if tomorrow,
in this hospital with its gallery and cafeteria,
there were no art, money, food, blood,
electricity, surgery?
So many wars and storms now,
we may say it won’t happen here,
but it can and does somewhere
almost every day.
It’s hard to tell the difference
between paint and blood,
present and future—
I go back to the art exhibit
to find some reality.
