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.
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