Voilà, C’est La Guerre!
I lie here, face down on a bed
Staring at the putrid gray and mouse-tiled floor.
It’s the same, infernal tile that lines all of
The floors in this promiscuously infected
Care facility.
Death is the slow process of familiarizing
Oneself with every crack, every rise and
Imperfection in this 10 x 10 square section in
The northwest corner of Room 2432.
That is the extent of my field of vision.
My head won’t turn to either side.
I can’t sit up and turn around to catch a
Glimpse out the window behind me.
I know it’s there, because I feel the sunlight
On my back and calves.
The sound of children playing outside
Comes in through the screen.
Bacteria and viruses reign supreme.
Stubborn, open wounds fester.
The sweet, ominous smell of Pine Sol
Is literally, a dead giveaway
(cleaning up after a death).
The core stench won’t go away, though.
It’s in the mattress when they flip me over;
I smell it in the hair of the orderlies.
Closing my eyes does no good.
- 2013
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