Ode to a Commode

A cry goes forth "Nu-urse...Nu-urse!"
down the ward in tones of urgency.
Please, a commode to ease the ache within myself....
Soon comes the sound of
rattling wheels and
running feet, and
the squeak of curtains being drawn.
Then to the sufferer comes a long drawn breath.
A relieved state
is followed by a quiet five minutes wait.

And again the bleat of "Nu-urse...Nu-urse!"
echoes through the hall and walls.
A hurried rustle of paper
Then the same relief for bone and flesh
of the aches and pains
that flesh is heir to
but bears with fortitude.
And so is bid farewell,
for the moment,
this instrument of necessity and dread.