In My Room
I hear it’s hot. Here, it’s not. This is the room with climate control. My wall paper is photos; girls, brothers, boys, a favorite nurse. My helmet is always near. So is my wig. My wig and helmet has an olde English D. They are the same. An oxygen system is covered by another wig: […]
I hear it’s hot.
Here, it’s not.
This is the room with climate control.
My wall paper is photos; girls, brothers, boys, a favorite nurse. My helmet is always near. So is my wig. My wig and helmet has an olde English D. They are the same.
An oxygen system is covered by another wig: a clown wig. You’ve seen me wear it for attention or diversion. You know it covers up nothing.
The doctor’s hidden flashlight he forgot weeks ago nests in a basket near switches and plugs and medical things pretending to be oh so official. I’ve used the light to search for Mother Mary and God and Bodhisattvas and my Dad.
This is the room with germ control.
I’m getting better in this room. “Up yours” to anyone who says otherwise. There are nights when I say “up yours” to yours truly.
There’s a month in this room. There are the towels I’ve stuffed into the gaps between me and next door — sometimes hospice, sometimes healing. There’s the bag of opened cards, the Nurses’ Relief Station full of candy, the guy on the laptop.
The guy on the laptop. Who is he? I remember him when I see his eyes. I forget his silliness sometimes though. He sure was silly. God was he fun.
Oh, oh, oh … he’s poking his nose into the room.
This is the room with mind control.
And The Beach Boys.
