The others

 I sit at my kitchen table and see on the street I live on people walking buy, running by, walking dogs, bicycling. They can't see me, with my hands and wrists still bruised and scabbed from the lines needed for the operation I had eight days ago. The people

I see are aliens to me. They have two legs to my one and are not in pain, as I am, bad enough that I cry out loud when rising to a standing position or lowering to a sitting or lying one. 

My country, the U.S.A., is mired in sharply demarcated conflict at the moment, but there is no separation more clear than that of the sick and the healthy.