Hospital Bed

I slept on an armchair the first night.
The elderly nurse brought a bed
as I curled on thin sheets.
Skin provides warmth if it has purpose.

The brain’s the most important organ,
often the worst functioning one.You dive to pull out a happy moment
or grieve for what hasn’t happened.

You can view the world through the lens
of a crippled man who knows the inevitable
but lives like a child with a cookie jar,
attached to simplicity to ease his pain.

You could wear a people pleaser’s shoes,
one smile after another in crowds,
arriving home to empty her burdens,
wishing she could laser off her habits.

Dad’s dying and the room knows.
The fake plant collects more dust
as paint peels on stale walls.
I listen to the clock’s echo and stare.

I’ve forgotten his eyes,
if they’re light brown or muddier.
Every blanket I’m given is blue.
I hate blue, I hate hospitals.

These are times to reflect, to pray.
I don’t want to, I want to sink
in the pity I always fathomed,
mirroring his immobile body.

Most of my life I’ve cried,
cried for…