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A wheaty field ruffles its glory
through the plate glass windows
that do not open
in the home.

It is lunchtime and 
women in white, crumpled
uniforms sit smoking
cigarettes over plates
of leftover food.
It congeals in
sad lumps.

Across the hall,
the colored nurses
share their lunches
with the kitchen staff,
leaning on the tiled walls,
haloed in smoke
of Marlboros.

A woman rolls by in a 
wheelchair singing
Oh Moses
came down to the
river my lord
over again
in shaking melody.
It echoes
to the white-clothed
women in each room.

One scoffs as she grinds out
another smoke into the 
depression-glass ashtray.

Another hums the song fondly
with visions of cotton-picking
hands bloodied,
her ancestors
in the heat.

All across he home 
are whispers
of God,
in the touch of hands,
the snapping of sheets,
the passing of all colors.

One woman dies,
and another is wrapped 
in a crisp sheet.

One nurse stumbles,
another catches.

Tears fall down the pitchers of ice water
in the halls of rooms.
Flies buzz above all.

Sweet sweet,
Oh Moses 
came down to the
river my lord.