The dark nights under bridge
was enough to remind one of a doctor's visitation.
It wasn't the hollowed eyes or
frantic heels of doctor that could be compared,
it was the hush of sound,
the low whisper of voice, of wind,
the buzzing of bells and gongs.
There was this smell of wounds,
like the smell of rats in gutter,
a sharp tang
that shot up the nose,
causing one to vomit a feast of a meal.
It was the nights under bridge
with only the stars to guide the eyes
that made one live
the moon pale and mournful,
dressing the sky in all its weight.
In the dark patients in bed shuffled
a little cough, a moan of pain,
a long long sigh
as needles flicked and pricked an arm or two.
That was the one difference,
the hospital had no stars.