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.
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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