The hum of heavy machinery
everywhere is maybe
even more impressive
than the purpose it was built for,
life support or 3-D pictures
of the spleen or brain,
a kind of lullaby
calling every baby home,
the song of something bigger
than human engineering,
than mere problem-solving,
a warm lagoon of sound.
Even the coarser rattle
of the vending machine is saying,
Listen child, don't worry,
go ahead, curl up
in a plastic chair
in the cold fluorescent hallway
as the angel nurses
and minor doctor gods
rustle past. Let go,
we'll all be fine, hush,
even when it's silent,
when someone pulls the plug.