touch typing

by Ann Chinnis

Almost the end of an ER
night shift. My neck aches
from craning over a toddler’s
dog-mauled face. Left hand
cramped from hours of suturing.
Singing my patient made-up

lullabies, I think of sleep-overs
with my granny, cuddled
beside her on the pull-out sofa.
A secretary in Congress, her arm
around me, she touch types
on my shoulder. My stories
of third-grade joy:
a lightbulb’s rasp in the dark
as I twist it into its socket,
the pop
of the opener’s blade into a can
of chicken-noodle soup. She
chants me to sleep with her Ozark
rendition of Longfellow—still typing—
Something hopeful in the mists
of morning. Coming nearer, nearer,

nearer. I swivel my stool, stretching
my legs while sunrise breeches
the sliding glass ambulance doors,
invades the night’s fluorescence.
The stretcher’s metal pulses
silver. My ER deathly
quiet as we salute
another night shift. Over.

Exhaling into daylight’s
comfort, I swivel back to the toddler
snoring beside me. In my repair,
the tiniest mismatch where pink
of lip offsets white
skin above it. I’ll try again.
At night, I forget
how wounds flare in the daylight.

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Ann Chinnis is the recipient of a Pushcart Prize, 2025, and the author of three poetry books—“Poppet, My Poppet,” “I Can Catch Anything,” and “Love Song: Port & Starboard” (forthcoming). She is a retired Emergency Physician and a leadership coach and lives with her wife in Virginia Beach, Virginia.