a ham sandwich

my rubber shoes squeak on the linoleum. it is three in the morning. you measure the shift by emptied bedpans. the old man in 412 coughs up yellow phlegm. i write it down on his chart. i walk down the hall to the machine. put three quarters in the slot. a ham sandwich drops down. the fluorescent tube overhead buzzes. most of them are asleep. a few of them are dying. i sit at the desk to eat the ham. watching the green line spike and drop on the monitor.