The Hospital
There’s potential for anything in the hospital.
Anyone could drift into a hospital gown.
Dawning on them at dawn, then again at noon.
They have enough hospital gowns for all of us and more.
And they all have a couple holes in them.
So do our stories which combine into one giant skeleton.
Got built by us over years,
We don’t know if he’s real or fake but looks a little paler than most types of bone.
Our stories may not always align.
But we chortle and pick at our wounds in front of the tv.
Pretend to be ghosts.
Under our beds, we roll over.
My eyes.
As my mouth almost moves, which in here?
Can’t do anything- harm, good, howling.
None.
In the hospital.
Things move like a slow motion swamp.
Guilt us.
I’ve been here three days.
As we interconnect like chalk lines around a body.
The hospital.
How can you call it that?
This is a plot of land in space and no time at all.
How can you call it that?
Just how…
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