Philip Johnson

Under Nightlights And Morphine

super trouper speckles dance off clinical white washed walls
their silver sparks tumble down from the around the bed curtain rails

turn fairy glitter to steely shine and raise up a drip stand

here and there there dangle clusters of red plastic bags
leave me disturbed

to see the other chaps with their heads lit up on starched pillows

as though displayed in a butchers shop
showcase

so casual

the way in which I accepted it
come to this

so easily

me to be meat for the pie crust filler
my residue off to the glue factory

post op dawn