Tied down by tubes in my nose, neck, and arms,
I watch the second hand on the wall clock spin
like a slow-motion roulette wheel; when the minute
hand hits my number, I press the pain button.
I want to stand as soon as possible but know I can’t,
that like Gulliver, I’m washed up on a strange island.
I’m Frankenstein’s creature, one hand outstretched,
muttering inarticulate sounds.
But unlike his master, who sparked life, then fled,
my night nurse abides. When I croak like a raven,
she wets my lips and asks if, in the morning, I want
a sponge bath. I do. First the bath and then I’ll stand,
I think again and again, until she comes in, asks
if the water is warm enough, and starts to work her way
down my body.
Yes, I say, and thank you, which is not enough
in this shockingly foreign country where everyone’s pain
is equal and you’re always at the front of the line.
