55 breaths a minute is exhausting just to watch, and I do watch, hovering at the end of the bed, hoping my treatment will take effect. hoping for something other than reality. It is not good use of time. My patient count at the end of the shift is absurd. But now I know. 55 breaths a minute, none of them shifting much air, is yet another not good way to die. Doctors don't always tell us what it's like, but these 17 short poems, written in between patients, in the dark of night, on coffee break, or catching a moment of sun, invite us in. The place is Australia, but the moments and the people and the search for meaning are universal tales.