BREAD

 


Hallway doctors,
pure as angels,
white as chefs
peruse menus on
clipboards,
their exhaustion
mouthed in metric
from a
graveyard shift cuisine,
is measuring the flour,
cutting off
the surplus
with whispers,
adhering
to rules, to rules, to rules
that open hospital smocks
mockingly exposing
the cold leakage
of air and latex,
the way fatigue
fatally sets in
when
leaning against
deadened
sagging bilious walls,
bringing on
the droning buzz of
flickering fluorescent
blood-suckers
screaming -
who is?
as a hypo
plunges deep
into a fat vein,
pliant & compliant,
to siphon me
through
the emptiness
outside the boxes
of my eyes
of infrared,
seeing
through layers of
dark matter
as a distant voice
is counting
backwards.

I smell bread
baking



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