I could not provide an answer,
nor could I gesticulate
as my veins curled similarly
to roundworms in cats’ rejection.
murmured the name of the medical scribe
but I stared at the doctor, pale
as the white coat I already sullied
with my lower middle class and ignorance.
flickering, the ceiling insulted the charity bed
that funds the frostbitten—frequent fliers
I could hear miles away,
for the morphine disappointed like decaf.
I wouldn’t return to work,
and that is what I wanted
but only in those hours
when I felt I did no good.
there was no pillow to clutch
and I had worn down all my brushes
used to glue together a quiet collage
of words in Helvetica you never meant.
I do not wish to taste
wet saltines of an awkward love
but I managed to sleep on thumbtacks
for a boy who had no time.
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