Sometimes it looks like this -
Crisp white sheets tucked obediently down,
A bird on the cover of a book of poems,
A splash of colour in orange and green -
But outside these curtained walls, a man is shouting
As though the sails of his lungs have sprung
Free their cells, and every woe, his angst and grievance,
From childhood years to this present moment
Are billowing and bellowing in merry disobedience
To the Golden Rule of Silence, in quarantine.
I gather only this: a man has lost his shoes,
And life will never be restored to him.
It looks like I’m able to read and write but I can’t ... although I did just write this poem! I have been very sick with sepsis most likely caused by haemophilus ... high fever, migraine, vomiting, coughing and more coughing... antibiotics, the wonder of our twentieth century, are doing their work and I hope to climb out of these crisp sheets when the fever decides to stay cool...
For the DVerse Poets Gathering (www.dversepoetscom)