(From Delta's perspective)
The streets are wet, the sky is gray,
But Murphy’s ready for the day.
He bounds ahead, all tail and bark
I walk behind, the matriarch.
A squirrel dares. He takes the bait.
I sit and stay. I elevate.
Let youth go chase and slip on leaves,
I’ve got no time for squirrelly thieves.
The city’s loud, but I’ve grown wise.
I watch it all with calm brown eyes.
Let sirens wail and buses roar,
I’ve walked these blocks a thousand more.
For Delta & Murphy. My two chocolate labs that bring so much joy.
Leashes taut, tails high with pride,
We march through morning’s traffic tide.
Two chocolate labs, one heart apiece,
A symphony of joy on leash.
Their noses lead through trash and toast,
Through scents the city guards the most.
They greet each hydrant like a friend,
Then tug ahead, around the bend.
Pigeons scatter, squirrels dare,
They lunge with glee, no time to spare.
A doorman laughs, a child squeals,
Their happiness rolls on four heels.
We weave through dogs in sweaters bold,
Through markets, parks, the brisk and cold.
They find the puddles, leap with grace,
And shake the world onto my face.
At red lights, we perform our dance,
Sit. Stay. Sniff. Then sideways glance.
When green, we sail on noisy seas,
A trio chasing small-town peace.
And though the towers scrape the sky,
And sirens wail as people fly,
These dogs, with fur like cocoa deep,
Remind me where my soul can sleep.
For in their steps, I’m pulled back home,
No matter how far out we roam.
Two chocolate labs, a leash, a lane,
And joy that walks me through the strain.
Click-clack hum on silver track,
The Hudson yawns, the skyline back.
From tunnels deep to rising shore,
The city fades, then roars no more.
A blur of bricks and rusted steel,
Gives way to trees the wind can feel.
The river glides like whispered prose,
While morning sun in silence glows.
Commuters lined in tired grace,
With coffee cups and stubbled face.
Some scroll the news, some close their eyes,
Some chase a dream that never dies.
The whistle cries near Tarrytown,
Where thoughts slow down, and clocks wind down.
A pause between two lives we keep,
The one we chase, the one we sleep.
Past Yonkers, Ossining, and green,
Where mountains watch and skies grow clean.
The train becomes a moving prayer,
For all who seek their why out there.
So let it roll through steel and pine,
A lifeline drawn in rhythmic line.
For every ride, a breath, a span,
Between the rush and who I am.
When faith is not a sharpened blade,
Nor shouted creed in fear’s charade,
But quiet hands that lift the low,
Then healing blooms where spirits go.
When scripture breathes, not beats or binds,
And mercy moves through open minds,
Then faith becomes a whispered balm,
A sheltering hush, a sacred calm.
Not walls, but doors it dares to make,
A place where hearts can rest, not break.
Where prayer is less about control,
And more the stitching of the soul.
It does not promise cure or end,
But walks beside you, like a friend.
It weeps with you, it holds your hand,
It helps you rise, not just to stand.
When done with love, not rule or pride,
Faith meets the ache we hold inside.
And whether God is named or near,
What matters most is who draws near.
So let your church be light and air,
A place where broken hearts repair.
For true religion heals in part,
By simply honoring the heart.
I walk the halls where silence clings,
Where IVs drip and hope still sings.
But healing's more than lab reports,
Than vitals tracked or weekly sorts.
A pill won’t fix a broken wage,
Nor cure the weight of housing rage.
A scan can’t see the soul that’s bruised,
Or hunger where the words are used.
So I step in with open eyes,
To hear the truths that medicine denies.
The mother scared to miss her shift,
The elder lost in paperwork drift.
The child who fights, but can't afford
The care that should be swift, assured.
The language gap, the system's wall,
I stand beside them through it all.
I speak their names in meetings cold,
Where data reigns and charts are gold.
I ask not just what is your pain?
But what’s been taken? What remains?
I call the caseworker again,
Translate the jargon, hold the pen.
I write the note the doctor missed,
I ask the pharmacist to assist.
Because to truly heal a life
We must confront not just the strife
Inside the blood or broken bone,
But all the ways they're left alone.
So let my work be more than care,
Let it be justice, bold and fair.
For healing thrives where truth is met,
And no one’s voice is easy to forget.
I rise before the break of light,
While silence holds the fading night.
The world still sleeps, but I begin,
A quiet strength beneath the skin.
My name won’t grace a headline page,
But I show up, shift after stage.
In halls where hope and heartache meet,
I steady hands, I move my feet.
In hematology’s long fight,
Where blood betrays, then begs for light,
I change the sheets, I check the line,
I catch the signs between the signs.
In oncology, where futures sway,
I hold the ones who fade away.
I find the words when none will do,
I stay because they need me to.
At home, the eyes of those I love
Watch every move I’m worthy of.
They do not see the gowns, the charts,
Just me, returning, bruised in parts.
But I am more than tired bones,
I am the roots beneath their home.
For them I rise, for them I stand,
With gentle voice and steady hand.
No cape, no crown, no grand applause,
Just purpose carved from silent cause.
To care, to give, to always show,
When life says stay, and others go.
So let the winds of burden blow,
I’ll hold my ground, I’ll never go.
For family’s love and patients’ trust
Are weight enough to make me just.
And in the dark or breaking dawn,
I carry both,
And still walk on.
They came from land where mesas rise,
Where desert suns paint flame-filled skies.
A place of quiet, stars, and space,
A soul shaped slow by nature’s grace.
Boots once caked with canyon clay,
Now trace bold steps through subway gray.
From cactus bloom to skyline steel,
They chased a dream they’d always feel,
To heal, to learn, to matter more,
Beyond the border of before.
New York, with sirens, sweat, and speed,
Would test their will and meet their need.
At first, the city swallowed whole,
The honking horns, the crowded soul.
But grit runs deep in desert-born,
And they had weathered fiercer storms.
They studied long, they barely slept,
They held their ground when others wept.
White coats came with earned acclaim,
Each stethoscope a whispered name.
Each patient seen, a vow renewed,
That healing starts with listening true.
From Bronx ERs to Brooklyn nights,
They stitched the dark with borrowed light.
And when at last the tassels turned,
The parchment signed, the knowledge earned,
They stood where towers touched the blue,
A doctor now, a dream come true.
Not just for self, but kin and place,
Who saw their triumph as their grace.
So here's to those who dare the climb
From desert dust to city time,
Who carry home within their chest,
And prove the journey shapes the best.
An Ode to the Healers of Gotham
I. The Rising
Before the city shakes off sleep,
Before the daylight dares to creep,
A figure wakes with purpose clear—
A soul who holds both hope and fear.
The coffee brews, the scrubs are donned,
While others dream, she's far beyond.
Today, like hundreds come before,
She walks through fate’s revolving door.
Out from the Bronx or Queens she rides,
Where concrete veins cut shifting tides.
The subway groans beneath the street,
A heartbeat strong, yet incomplete.
She grips the pole, her eyes still dim,
Yet filled with prayers and quiet hymn:
“May pain be eased. May strength be lent.
May love be more than just intent.”
II. The Commute
The 6 train barrels, breathless, loud,
Through tunnels dark and tightly cowed.
The dancer, broker, cook, and priest
All jostle toward their daily feast—
Of duty, labor, dreams half-spun,
Of bills to pay, of races run.
But hers is not for praise or pay—
She walks the halls where shadows stay.
Transfers made with practiced grace,
She rises near Grand Central’s face.
The station hums like whispered prayer,
The scent of bagels fills the air.
And then, on foot through morning’s chill,
Past scaffolded streets and windows still.
Her badge tucked close, her gait is true—
A healer's path, the day's debut.
III. The Ascent
Through glass and steel the towers gleam,
But not all wounds can be seen.
Inside the cancer ward, time bends—
It steals, it fights, it sometimes mends.
Machines hum soft, IVs drip slow,
And patients learn what few can know:
That life is raw, and sweet, and brief—
A flame that flickers sharp with grief.
She enters rooms with measured breath,
Where eyes have stared too long at death.
She charts the chemo, checks the line,
Adjusts the drip, and holds the spine
Of one who shivers in the cold
Of truths too cruel, too quickly told.
But in her smile—steadfast, serene—
A lighthouse floats in what has been.
IV. The Trial
She helps a man whose voice is gone
To spell out hope in whispered dawn.
She holds a child who’s lost her hair,
And threads a braid of silent care.
She laughs with those who need to feel
That life still turns and wounds can heal.
She mourns at noon, but must go on—
Another room, another song.
Her steps are firm, her heart intact,
Though sorrow knocks and pain reacts.
She carries stories in her bones—
Of final words and ringing phones.
And still she stands, with chart in hand,
The beating heart of this wide land.
Not all heroes wear a sword—
Some push a vitals cart on ward.
V. The Return
The sun dips low, her shift now done,
She walks back slow beneath the sun.
The city's noise returns once more,
But she is changed from where she wore
The weight of others’ fading light,
And held them gently through the night.
Back on the train, she leans her head,
And thinks of all who smiled, and bled.
Her feet may ache, her body sore,
But purpose pulls her evermore.
For when you work where hope is thin,
You learn the strength of what’s within.
And so she rides into the dusk,
Her scrubs now stained with more than musk.
In this great city, bold and wide—
She is the soul who walks beside.
Epilogue
So sing, O Muse, of those who go
Through rising dark and undertow—
To fight with charts, with touch, with grace,
And meet despair face-to-face.
Their names unsung by marble pen,
Yet they are gods among us, then.
For every dawn they rise anew,
To heal the world in quiet hue.
