25.
Some mornings i wake up
molested by medication;
terrorized by apocalyptic tremors
for the duration of
my short morning scream,
that ends
as confusion
swims into my crusted view
the scene is:
the interior of a white room
with a mattress wrapped in plastic
for ease of cleaning,
in case of vomit or blood or worse,
laying on the bed
our hero,
me,
in a familiar cameo
the bed surrounded by metal handles
hanging tubes dripping fluid
the action happens
in the room,
with the door that is never fully closed,
with nurses who knock
and open the door
call out my name;
at midnight, 1 a.m., 2 a.m., 3 a.m., 4 a.m.
or shine a light on the bed,
the hourly check
that i’m still breathing
these mornings i wake up
sort of alive
the nurses know
they’ve done their job