straight and even lines, we sat. Men
on the left and women the right, shoes still on.
The dull background ache of bleach stained
the beds. Each of us divided, though
the curtains were open their isolating potential
severed us just as well. Except for the smell
the air feels more like a library in here, or even,
perhaps, a church - that nervous silence which
only the staff feel free to break; here
it's the nurses' feet, walking from bed to bed
that fleck the awkward tension with their busy,
punctual pacing. Yet even here, while I sit
alone to wait, I see your eyes have met.
By early afternoon you're sharing a bed.
It's chaste of course, in a room with twenty others
and hourly vitals checks, to fuck would be
more than impressive... or not, if you got away
with it. So instead you watch Sex And The City
and lie together on the single beige mattress.
"How novel you found each other there," I hear
your friends and family say, "that place of sickness
and death, it's ever so romantic". But as
the noise of your DVD fades to a silence
saying more than you ever could, my jealousy
fades with it, safe in the knowledge that you're
as isolated as I am, alone on my bed;
I've just given up your pretenses.
No comments:
Post a Comment