Wednesday, November 1, 2017

The White Room



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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