The stippled ceiling tiles keep out God’s stare,
Rectangular, machine-cloned white, soft, cracked.
Insomnious with God, I spot a hair
In the bedside bedpan. Sobs are racked.
Cryptogenic cells, fast spillage of groans,
Fractal headlights’ lasers hours later
Whose ECG wall flares a Zorro slash. Coned
In creeping moonlight, hands clutch …. shadows quaver.
Morning’s the same, same the condescending
Brusqueness of revolving nurses, angry, spent.
One escorts a postcard, blank, and sending
It back with an inky X, I relent
And work those unobtrusive tablets in.
The orderly, like clockwork, tucks me in.
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