![\"\"](\"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/hospital-300x147.jpg\")
<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
They watch us eat, quarrel, make love, sleep. ~ Of All the Highrises, Cathy Park Hong, Engine Empire<\/p>\n
In these sparse rooms, grief hangs like a bland painting. The ones with heavy shoulders, they They watch us eat, quarrel, make love, sleep. ~ Of All the Highrises, Cathy Park Hong, Engine Empire In these sparse rooms, grief hangs like a bland painting. The ones with heavy shoulders, they work shaking hands through their hair. The small ones, the ones…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":988,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[11],"tags":[2315,2314,2223],"class_list":["post-36165","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-half-marathon-poem","tag-goldenshovel","tag-poemeight","tag-poetryhalfmarathon2017"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/36165","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/988"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=36165"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/36165\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":36236,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/36165\/revisions\/36236"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=36165"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=36165"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=36165"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nwork shaking hands through their hair. The small ones, the ones with no words for loss, watch
\nthe busy doctors\u2019 feet moving toward, with, and then always away from us,
\npulling at a parent\u2019s sleeve, pointing at the vending machine, cramming fists between lips\u2014eat<\/em>.
\nBy the receptionist\u2019s station, a woman with crossed arms grimaces at her partner, mid-quarrel
\nbut unwilling to make
\na private dispute escalate into a display of temper. A white haired man whispers of his love
\nfor an absent wife. My nails press to my palms, each stab a command to wake from your sleep.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"