First Aid (From A Modern Day Florence Nightingale)

I wish there was a state-of-the-art hospital All sterile and overstaffed Surgeons with stethoscope ears To hear the pulse of the troubled poets A M*A*S*H tent, full of stretchered sentences Giving proper attention to the wounds That whisper as they bleed out Hope turning gangrene An erected Red Cross shelter Providing provisions to those Tossed and caught up in the wake Of water rising too high, too fast A battlefield medic with medals of valor Applying pressure to save the ink of the fallen poet Syringes filled with sweet sonnets Sedating their pain, bullet ridden burdens And a metaphorical Medicine Man Chanting to chase the evil from their thoughts Burning sage to cleanse their souls Peyote PEACE calm their senses Maybe just a poolside first aid station Pulling them from the deep end Pumping New life into their lungs Expelling the salt from their tears I shall take to carrying extra band-aids In my pockets, just in case I come across the skinned knees of a quiet writer Who bleeds by their own hand