The only time I touch another
is to examine or cause pain.
I hold their hands to start IVs.
Palpating for a vein.

I reach through veils of plastic.
People wince at me.
Except for those that contact
without touch- like Ginny.

“Ginny, how are you feeling?”
“I have a hole in my lung,” she says snubbly.
She looks at her chest tube and then the ceiling,
“I guess that makes me bubbly.”

I try to focus on our interview,
but distracted, I see a flower vase
“Your family must care a lot about you.”
“My children feel lost and out of place.”

“I wish they were here, but it’s for the best.
Every decision I make is my own.
No one to lean on in moments of weakness.
I am forced to be independent and bold.” 

Weakness? She looks formidable
in her mound of blankets,
staying afloat by shear will.
“You know- I refused to change beds?”

“If I have to, I will sleep in my van
before I share a room with another.
You laugh, but the virus plans
to drown me as I suffer.

I know because I heard it clearly
In my roommate rattling
the last time I was prisoned here. 
I, for one, would rather go out bubbling.

If this surgery does not fix me,
I will then be free to go.
So I need not make my mind up, dear.
I voted long ago.”

She glances at her bright green purse
full of letters, in the window sill
and capped with a cup for dentures
leather worn, but cheery still

“Could you bring that to me, please?
I will take my teeth out for you
There is no need for niceties
no more food to chew.

I suppose you’d like to listen
to my lungs and not my story.
But then again, your kind face beckons
as if you needn’t hurry.

Finish your exam, I promise I will stop
Perhaps I will be a case study,
a novel medical write up,
or perhaps just a memory.

I would settle for a poem about this Spring.
Just don’t write it ‘til I’m free.”

“I promise to take care of you”, I say.
I care about you, I mean.
I turn to walk away, 
close the door and choking, I leave.

I discard my gloves and wash my hands
That subtle ounce of humanity
starts cravings I never knew I had
and holds in question my own sanity.

(05-11-2020, 05:07 AM)LSClanton Wrote:  Ginny and the Grippe


The only time I touch another
is to examine or cause pain.
I hold their hands to start IVs.
Palpating for a vein.

I reach through veils of plastic.
People wince at me.
Except for those that contact
without touch- like Ginny.   There is a problem here with rhyme, see below.

“Ginny, how are you feeling?”
“I have a hole in my lung,” she says snubbly.  The made-up word is effective, but suggests a forced rhyme.
She looks at her chest tube and then the ceiling,
“I guess that makes me bubbly.”

I try to focus on our interview,
but distracted, I see a flower vase
“Your family must care a lot about you.”
“My children feel lost and out of place.”

“I wish they were here, but it’s for the best.
Every decision I make is my own.
No one to lean on in moments of weakness.
I am forced to be independent and bold.” 

Weakness? She looks formidable
in her mound of blankets,
staying afloat by shear will. Should be "sheer" unless there's to be a suggestion of cutting, I believe.
“You know- I refused to change beds?”

“If I have to, I will sleep in my van
before I share a room with another.
You laugh, but the virus plans
to drown me as I suffer.

I know because I heard it clearly strictly speaking, this line (and the first line of the next stanza) should begin with a double quote to indicate the same speaker is still speaking.  Also some others below.
In my roommate rattling
the last time I was prisoned here. 
I, for one, would rather go out bubbling.

If this surgery does not fix me,
I will then be free to go.
So I need not make my mind up, dear.
I voted long ago.”

She glances at her bright green purse
full of letters, in the window sill
and capped with a cup for dentures
leather worn, but cheery still

“Could you bring that to me, please?
I will take my teeth out for you
There is no need for niceties
no more food to chew.

I suppose you’d like to listen
to my lungs and not my story.
But then again, your kind face beckons
as if you needn’t hurry.

Finish your exam, I promise I will stop
Perhaps I will be a case study,
a novel medical write up,
or perhaps just a memory.

I would settle for a poem about this Spring.
Just don’t write it ‘til I’m free.”

“I promise to take care of you”, I say.
I care about you, I mean.
I turn to walk away, 
close the door and choking, I leave.

I discard my gloves and wash my hands  need a period here.
That subtle ounce of humanity
starts cravings I never knew I had
and holds in question my own sanity.

Don't want to go line-by-line too much here and critique phrasing, meter, and such.  It's a heartfelt, thoughtful, and moving work.

My problem is with the semi-rhyme.  It doesn't seem forced too often, but rhyme is tightly associated with meter, i.e. regular rhythm when read.  Without that (and this work quite properly doesn't stick to a fixed meter, being essentially conversational) rhyme can be jarring, almost seeming unintentionally humorous.  I'm forced to say, and hope it's not a step too far for mild critique, that the rhyming detracts, at least it does for me.

When editing, aside from typographic nuances like quotation marks and periods, consider how this could seem more spontaneous and real without the rhymes.  Or perhaps reserve them for the writer's/viewpoint's own thoughtful comments after the fact, taking care that rhyming lines also "happen" to have the same rhythmic structure (meter).

Hope this is helpful, it's a very moving poem.