Ineffable Queries From a Hospital Bed

Do you hear the hillbilly truck driver singing, while the Black man's driving the slapped low ringing in the background and you say I'm rigid in my points-of-view, but these dead seem to still hold their sway over you? Do you think the tree is white, too, remember our perennial cure, the yard quitting its slumber, so do things like flowers mean a thing anymore anyway, like these mums that are wilting away on the tray? Did the nurse put down the remote on the table out of reach I am sick of the daytime babble and your sour-faced glower that might steer me clear of a fray or chance asking what might put you out of your way?