Scott Ferry

part of my job is writing

notes on patients from an alert systemsometimes when i open the chartthe patient has already diedand the pop up windowasks if i wish to continueeven though the personhas already passedand i guess whenasked this we alleventually haveto sayyes

this poem

is a bicycle with no bolts free-greased and synoviala boy reaching for praise from a dead fathera missile exploding inwardlyin shame for cryingas a grownmangrown as afather implodingwith so many prayersagainst god’s accidents flutteringin the sky like bombs with unbolted belliesmy father sheltering us with his broken wings

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Scott Ferry

part of my job is writing

this poem

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