My room has
white walls.
Manacled
with drips and catheters,
at night I conclude
I must be a
prisoner
facing my
last dawn,
the fatal
shot up the cannula.
What have I
done?
I’ve had the
temerity to get sick
that’s what.
Something’s
wrong
with my
gut.
I need ten
days of antibiotics
through a
vein.
I am captive
in a single room.
Hour after
hour the walls get to me,
screening silent
episodes of my life.
I wait and
wait for meals,
meds and obs.
Then there’s
the TV –
it could be
our family’s first.
“Hello
childhood,”
it smiles,
sparing me no pain,
“Remember
me?”
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