Room 816, Bed 2

If it’s not your heart it’s your guts
he explained all white jacket all narcotic halo
all soft and tolerable

I counted the skyscraper pens in his pocket
remarked he might need a protector someday

He glanced up from his PDA hybrid strangely furrowed
as if I meant bodyguard or Jesus or something
so I adjusted my bed up slow mechanical agony and patience
slurring NO NO for your jacket the ink in your fourteen pens
laughing deep and exasperated and hoping the crotchety Czech nurse
would swoop around the periwinkle/ cobalt curtain with more dope

Smirking he brought me back around to where he seriously needed me:

In order to heal the hole in the gut
the sanctity of the heart must to be monitored and managed
a fine artful balance of anticoagulation and antibiotics

I could only think what’s the difference between acting
with your heart or your gut anyways

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Filed under poetry, published work

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