Here is a hospital poem by James Reeves, one of my neglected poets. Whether this poem is light or dark or deep or shallow I have never been able to decide. (Which no doubt means that I am very slow on the uptake.)
Discharged From Hospital
He stands upon the steps and fronts the morning.
The porter has called a taxi, and behind him
The infirmary doors have swung and come to rest.
Physician, surgeon, and anaesthetist
Have exercised their skill and he is cured.
The rabelaisian sister with the bedpan,
The vigorous masseuse, the sensual nurse
Who washes him modestly beneath a blanket,
The dawn chorus of cleaners, the almoner,
The visiting clergyman -- all proceed without him.
He is alone beyond all need of them,
And the saved man goes home, to die of health.
James Reeves, The Questioning Tiger (1964).