Hospital Poetry

Hospiten Cancun

I was doing well.
In fact, I hadn't bitten one nail;
my hands looked like those of a real grown up lady.
So willingly entangled in the luxury of rest,
they fell
loosely at my sides, empty;
giddy and empty of cares.
And then some bad meat put my love
En Hospiten Cancun.
We hurtled there
(between hurls)
together,
my fingers beginning their agitation.
Then I, back: overnight requirements, dinner,
and clean socks.
My eyes closed and I felt my body straining
to stay upright,
as I raced along the thoroughfares of Mexico
in a taxicab with no seat belts.
Back again, strapped in this time.
My hands, though; my poor, reality incapable hands.
Somewhere between el Hospiten y el Riviera and back
I lost them all. I have no tips to speak of,
none left to my name.
Except, perhaps ironically, on my middle finger,
which I shall extend in a salute
to the bad meat.



Found

My soul's mate has been found.
He is over there,
on the couch.



This Visit has Worked its Way into a Bad Analogy,
But Here it is Anyway.

Before I met you I was in a state of severe dehydration.
Angels like nurses would come,
adjust the IV with their thumbs,
and pull at the corners of my blanket.
They can not make decisions,
so they bring me God.
"Does it hurt when I push here?" so asks the Lord.
"Or here; how much pain is this?"
"There is always pain
when you push me," comes my feverish reply.
After being rolled on a gurney through everything timeless,
my thirst, forever, was quenched.
Finally, the angels have succeeded in their duties:
they brought me you.