I was admiring,
the beautiful city space where you tend to your medicine.
The ivory towers,
I circled round and round the other day.
It was a cold and perfect fall
early enough for the sky to be an intense ammonia blue,
enough to be blowing up white swabs of soothing clouds,
and the sun was slanted
to be turning the towering stack on the corner of Francis St. and
I walked the blocks in concentric circles,
trying to see which buildings might offer a view
of the giant rooftop washtubs,
dropping great umbrellas of steam
over doctors, nurses, patients hurrying
How do I get in to see Oz?
I walked up by the marbled and
Harvard research buildings,
nearly as dusty and quiet outside
as Greek ruins,
hugging the earth like white turtles.
I wandered back
the giant gray corncobs of Brigham and Women's Hospital,
at curtains askew, like missing teeth.
rope or crampons,
I couldn't get to the heights,
I couldn't reach the
canopy of the medical forest.
I walked out from the dark forest floor
to get warmed up in the sunshine
pouring into Longwood Avenue.
Holly W. Graves, 2002
on "back" for more poems.
To share your poem, send