They are waiting, their worlds torn apart.
The door bangs shut. Waste, inefficiency.
They cling to each other, truth binds them.
The broken arm, the foot held in plaster,
the kindly neighbour, the devoted carer.
Stystems fall apart. Burdened by busyness.
Who will help the walking wounded?
More waiting rooms expect them in.
Drowned out tears, man cries wolf,
female patient screams over intercom
“No one f****** cares about me.”
When did it become too busy to care?
One day, you may walk wounded here