Friday, July 01, 2005
So many holes in ceiling tile;
Here flat upon my back
I count a while, but have to smile:
It's hard to not lose track.
The busy little IV pump
Tick-ticks away the day;
A nurse, quite plump, assaults my rump
With daggers from her tray.
Some muffled voices from the hall
Enhance my fitful rest;
Miraculous I sleep at all
And am not more depressed.
What visitors come by exude
A wooden kind of cheer;
While I'm not rude, I must conclude
My days are numbered here.
The drooping flowers on the sill,
The cards with, "Get Well Soon";
Well what the hell, I sooner will
Be skiing on the moon.
I'd like to go home just to check
The mail and stop the News ...
My body's more or less a wreck,
My psyche sings the blues.
So many holes in ceiling tile,
Like stars on heaven's dome;
I count them, then I snooze a while
And dream I am back home.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull