Thin as Skin

The gown hangs loosely on the chair,

blue veins show through the pale thin air.

Fluorescent hum hums its tired song,

a fabric barrier, cold and wrong.

A nurse folds it with practiced care,

fingers tracing seams threadbare.

Its creases hold the patient’s weight—

skin and cloth, a fragile state.

I watch the empty vinyl seat,

where cotton meets where flesh will meet.

A flimsy shield, stretched and worn,

like hope and fear both torn.