Hospital

Hospital

what I see is

the pulsing of your heart beneath the pallid skin of your chest

and the sleep slowly collecting in the corner of your unrestful eyes

your jaw slackens and your mouth falls open into a delightful grimace

the light from the bedside lamp casts menacing shadows across your face

playing off the ridge of your nose and gathering in the dark sockets of your eyes

the tightly tucked bed-sheet stretches over your body, skimming the surface

and the chairs are lined up, one, two, three, waiting for those to watch you

the clock on the wall will only move when it isn’t watched

and the food on your tray will always somehow, mysteriously, get eaten

the pillow that slips and pulls your head down into that awkward contortion

will always be moved by the matronly hands that monitor your bed

the tube that enters your nose, leading to depths beyond my imagination

and pumping liquids without names to fill the web of your veins

appears foggy and thin, and clasped painfully tight

and the needle that punctures the thin skin on your hand leaves bruises

the t.v. clamped to the ceiling drones in quiet, consistent monotony

and the reading pile beside your bed manages to contain every magazine

that I don’t want to read, and neither does anyone else

and the lady in the bed beside you rattles on about england and why she it fat

but you are quiet and contained and pleasantly undemanding

and you smile when they talk to you, even though they patronize you

and slowly the sickly pallor of your skin recedes and

the tube is removed and untangled from your wrist