A Hospital Drama

The pale blue hospital gown won't tie up at the back. From behind, my rearend looks like a small Baluga whale, peeping through a linin sky. My soul is adhered to a point on my chest where a tube feeds it one drip at a time. 3 days in, and I am well enough to be truly sick. The nurse, once caring and pretty, has morphed into a hairy Pakistani guy who sneers a lot. What I need is a window seat, a book of poems by Charles Baudelaire and a tall glass of chardonnay. What I have is a torture rack that goes up and down, but never moves anywhere. My daydreams have become nightmares, yet, and this is the crazy part, I wake up each morning with an ********. I admire myself for a little while, then the blood suckers arrive to draw more blood out of my depleted reservoir of manliness.