Just back from Hospital, after minor surgery. Concentrates the mind.
What the Sick Think
Beyond broad windows people tip home,
or back to work through the sluice
of traffic, rain, cold, or winter sun
brassy on their skin, but that is not for us.
Inside out like socks our focus is arcane,
the labyrinth of pulse and flesh and synapse,
inexplicably gridlocked. We are a breed apart.
The magazines and works of art,
the TV screens flickering in the evening
like bats, the crews landed here
to watch their beats and lifted off each
night, declare our exile. We read
our fate in those who pass exotically by,
gauzed and tubed, their faces closed
like blooms, We have only one question:
will things ever be the same for us?