Do you ever grow weary of the way things don't work? (Bad poetry in an Argentine public hospital)

Do you ever grow weary of the way things don't work?
(4 hours in the ER, and no sign of being seen
"Welcome to Argentine hospitals"
Roll the eyes of my fellow waiters)

Or don't work how you expect them to?
("But really!" the Peruvian, Brazilian, Chinese and I insist,
"Back home the hospitals are clean and efficient!"
And the brown and gray and blue Argentine eyes stare back at us as if we were aliens
...Wait...we are aliens...
Because we've lived a different reality
And they can't believe us)

Do you ever grow weary of the way things don't work?
Of the foot that keeps swelling?
Of the right words that won't come out of a left brain?
Of the room that stays dark because the light burned out

And no one bothered to replace it?

But if the lights only worked

Not big fluorescent lights

But pinhole rays of tiny brilliance

Evidence of a reality we've caught a glimpse of

("What if we brought a guitar to the ER?" we muse 

And in the meantime we play hangman

And listen, and talk, and joke

But mostly smile)

Shining

Because even when things don't work

There's no sense in growing weary