Fever Dream

by Brett Rutherford

Off to the hospital then,

if it is not too late.

I go on foot, wild

the wind of late

October buffets me.

At the arrival gate

where ambulances

bring those who come

only to exit by way

of the morgue,

the Angel of Death

swoops down

along with leaves

and torn-off branches

to block my way,

a clotted cloud

made of black gauze,

a sooty skein of rag

with nothing in it.

It blocks my way,

and I must tear

this rotten shroud

away to pass.

And I do, I do.

A high-desk nurse

refuses to admit me.

"You came on foot,"

she tells me.

"That means there's

nothing wrong with you."

Around the back I go

to another wing,

where I find others

just like myself,

each swatting away

a rag-doll Reaper,

some on all fours

crawling up slope

to the healing place.

I am in and out

of a makeshift bed,

in what feels like

a basement corridor.

A robot arrives.

Prongs force my mouth

open. A light shines in.

Four beeps, a flash

of blue light,

and it wheels away.

No one explains.

At last a doctor

tells me to follow him

to a consulting room

where I am told

I have Chajeebie's

Syndrome. Thank

the gods, not COVID!

"I can't deal with another

of these," the elder doctor

says. "Call in my son."

Hand over mouth, he flees.

A nurse comes in.

"We called a car," she says.

"But what about treatment?"

I ask. "Treatment?" she scoffs.

"Don't you know Chajeebies

is a termy?"

                      "Termy?"

"A terminal condition.

You'll be gone by midnight.

The car will take you

to Allegheny Cemetery.

They'll show you a little

movie, and you can pick

a plot you like.

"Have a nice day!"