TRANSPORT
- 20 hours ago
- 1 min read
By Bart Verhoeven
A wheel squeaks,
the kind that sticks,
then gives,
then sticks again.
Metal rails rattle,
bright against the floor’s dull shine.
A faint trail of disinfectant follows,
sharp enough to blind the tongue.
The sheet lifts at one corner
as the bed turns;
a loose gesture,
barely a gesture at all.
It brushes the ground
with a soft, dragging sound
like someone shuffling in a dream.
The ceiling lights slide across the frame,
one after another,
each reflection trembling
in the chrome.
A nurse taps the foot brake,
checks nothing in particular,
pushes on.
The hallway widens.
The air comes down.
Only then do you see
the shape under the sheet,
still as poured wax,
and move to make room
for a body that no longer needs it.