Thursday, January 26
What really is there to say
about the inside of a hospital room?
There are colors first: white
floors, white curtains. An ease
of winter light from the window.
Then sounds, the layered television
babble mostly blocking any
chirp and buzz from the machines
we have trained ourselves to ignore.
Turn up the volume—contestant
number two’s soufflé is not quite done,
its egg whites fallen.
In the room there is no smell. I find this
strange. I could make it up but the point
is honesty, or the impression that I
care about the details.
It is twilight now. Snow will fall tonight.
The room remains the same whether
I am there or not.
The only permanence I seek
is written (not true), and even then I know
the lies. So I’ll try a few: a blue curtain made of
silk. Lilac in the air. A door going
anywhere else. An ending that leaves
room on the page for more.