Saturday, April 4, 2015

Numbered Silence

She enters with her days numbered
And a question irrelevant.
The last drop of conversation deterred;
The payroll room a deaf warrant,
As her colleague now faces her in expectance.

“How do I go about claiming my hospital bill?”
She finally enquires, in
A smooth, even tone which trails  
Reality much founded upon
Numbered paper as an entity.

“Eighty-five percent paid by employer,
Depending on your scheme.
Cash, Medisave, Insurance;
Payment choice for you to pick.
Settle the bill, make no blunders;
Then your invoice awaits our clearance.
But wait a second, may I know
The purpose of this visit?”

An abrupt shot, a clean hit
Into the compounds of privacy
Justified by what her duty
Deems fit.  
She answers, “Surgery”.
Then the walls echo politely,
“What pre-existing ailments do you have?”

The sunlight prickles
Droplets on the frosted windows
Overlooking the rushing masses
Of soulless vehicles in search
For the wake of a forgotten dream.
She swallows the conditioned air
Of grief, and embarrassment;
As if a chilled fire burns her
In contempt  
Of fate’s heavy hand.

“Cancer.”

She answers. Then all hold still.
The human machine wired
By the establishment ignores
And details a formulated answer
That “the hospital would know how to charge”,
Directing her to an endless procedure
Of lifelong learning.
The bill incurred whether or not guilty;
She bids her farewell
To her colleague--
One whose basic humanity
Fails to occupy one’s occupation.

Undeniable it was,
The piling numbers added to a
Pain, not due to health forgone,
But possibly to the survivors of her
Memory. A claim draws testament
To a life measured. Eighty-five
Percent worth saving. Or more,
For she unearths a rooted courage
To free others from practical strains
In spite of time ticking at heartbeats.
If only this could be credited in her account.

Perhaps weakness rallies
One’s nature, then states
It clean for judgment.
Perhaps a truer life led hides
Freed from predictable wonder
Of the clockwork in traffic
Lights below.
Constance in variants, much like how

The double-beep electronic lock clicks
The door shut with questions,

Leaving silence. 

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