Still Busted

At work in our new domicile
Everyone agrees, things have changed,
For the owners and the public
It's beautiful how it's arranged,
But to us, boots on the floor
We're thankful, but there's a price,
Like Frankenstein's wedding
Throwing worms instead of rice.

The place is kind of big
Compared to where we used to be,
Every Recovery Unit I've ever seen
Was a single room, where everyone could see,
Now we're a large square unit
Four corridors, each thirty feet long,
If I yell for you at one end
You'll just think I am singing a song.

Twenty-one separate cubbyholes
Privacy guaranteed, in a sort of way,
We keep the sliding doors swung to the side
There's a curtain to keep prying eyes at bay,
When the door is fitted in it's groove
It won't accomodate even a gurney,
You might feel trapped and caged
And inclined to call your Attorney.

The rooms were not designed for a bed
Why not?; it takes up too much space,
To allow a visitor to hang out in the chair
Just barely leaves room for a vase,
Near the fixed-counter sink cupboard area
Hardly room for the thinnest of Nurses,
Adjust a monitor, assess Mr. Patient?
While I'm mumbling kind-hearted curses.

Oh, so gorgeous and shiny on the surface
Where underneath, the machine is still busted,
Only time will tell, while management feels swell
But quite frankly, it just can't be trusted,
While the corporate heads of great branding
Tout our beautiful building with pride,
Architecturally, oh yes, it is pretty
But ergonomics, were kicked off the ride.

Fibril_late;
5/15/14