plastic mattress



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,


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