By Shem Onderi
Oh, Dispensary Bench, if you were human,
So wide, so strong, your presence is proven.
Built for comfort, you await with grace,
As patients sit, in this quiet space.
Placed by the wall, near the block,
Not far from the doctor or the pharmacist’s walk,
You rest in the hallway, often alone,
Unnoticed at dusk, when the day’s all grown.
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No one can carry you, you’re built too stout,
Heavy as stone, without a doubt.
You hold the sick, their burdens too,
While they wait for care to see them through.
Little’s known of your designer’s hand,
Why you’re so wide, so firm, so grand.
Perhaps the creator, with wisdom, knew,
How much you’d bear for the many who grew.
Rarely sanitized, you stand still and wait,
While those who rest upon you contemplate.
They sanitize hands before they sit,
In your waiting arms, their patience lit.
You’ve heard their tales of hope and despair,
Some healed, others left with no prayer.
Some referred away, others made it through,
Each with a story, a struggle they knew.
What timber are you made of, so smooth,
Furnished with care, yet none can remove
Your stillness, your role in the daily grind,
Where the sick and their kin wait in mind.
Crafted not for luxury, but for need,
You live among medicine, serving indeed.
Near the cries of the sick at injection time,
You hear their stories, their fears, their climb.
You’ve heard them whisper of sleepless nights,
Battling pain, unable to fight.
Mothers lamenting their children’s plight,
Patients preparing for their doctor’s sight.
Through the window, you’ve overheard,
Doctor-patient talks, a comforting word.
The nurse in charge, with a steady hand,
Tends to the wounded, as you quietly stand.
In the evening, they take you inside,
If space allows, you’re tucked away to hide.
But in the morning, you’re first out the door,
Ready to serve, to bear and to more.
Oh, Bench, you’ve seen so many tales unfold,
Of janitors turned doctors, with wisdom untold.
Tea girls who became lab experts, maybe true,
If you had life, you’d be a pharmacist too.
Years from now, should the facility grow,
Will you still stand, or be let go?
What upgrade could suit you, what will remain,
If they remodel you out of this lane?
In the darkness, you’ve seen the thieves,
Stealing medicine, hiding their sleeves.
But never would anyone take you along,
For you are part of the dispensary’s song.
Oh, Dispensary Bench, if you were human,
Your worth would be known, your tale resuming.
You’ve held the sick, the weary, the weak,
A silent companion, always there to speak.
