Come with me to the Emergency Room

55 breaths a minute is exhausting just to watch.

And I do watch,

hovering at the end of the bed,

hoping my treatment will take effect.

hoping for something other than reality.

It is not good use of time.

My patient count at the end of the shift

is absurd.

But now I know.

55 breaths a minute,

none of them shifting much air,

is yet another

not good way

to die.

These poems, written in between patients, in the dark of night, on coffee break, or catching a moment of sun, unveil the heart of being a doctor there.

The place is Australia. Everything else is for everyone.