Hospital Bed
If you were to find an old
calendar, strap it to a hospital
bed,
tie it down by its weak ends,
and then sea section the belly
of it's pages, you'd find the
winding roads of my intestinal
past.
I used to be a ballot box filled
of everyone else's opinion
except for my own. My swagger
was like watching a Walkman
trying to swallow a DVD.
When I was a little younger,
I walked as if I were concerned
about how the ground would
feel about my footsteps. And if
I could just find a way to write
a letter to myself, when I was a
sweater with itchy sleeves that
I would someday grow out of,
I would say,
"There will be days you will feel
like a peacock with no feathers.
You will feel flightless, and
undeserving of attention."
But listen, listen to me. LISTEN.
You have to stop getting out of
bed like you are an oil spill.
You're not a flat tire at 2 am,
so stop acting like an accident.
Spenser, you are an apple on a
pine tree in a room full of
lemons, and you come from a
line of authentic Swiss army
pocket knives; Men who are
rare, sharp and dangerous
when not handled carefully.
Somedays I wish my arms were
a few years longer so that I
could reach back, grab you by
the shoulders, punch you in the
chest, and say,
"Listen. You are the main
character in a movie that I
watch every time I see the
inside of my eyelids."
I told myself a million times
that I wouldn't spoil the ending,
but I will tell you this: Your
story starts off really slow, but
it does get better.
You don't have to believe me.
Someday you'll see for
yourself.
I will see her again soon.
At the apex of her driveway
that I can now see in my
dreams,
I will ignore the washing
machine in my stomach.
I'll tell her that she looks
beautiful.
I will extend my arms like a
drawbridge to a castle no one
has visited in years.
Pressure washing my fears
from my hardened heart, I will
show her how far I've come
from the hospital bed.
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