The Doctor, Part 5

Three weeks ago
I was a skinny white
beer machine,
I was
walking briskly
everywhere,
I was
past the dream of a soft gray
v-neck sweater
scooping a trowel into the fresh soil
in any garden morning,
I was living
the hard cruise control
of modern survival,

now I am flat,
a broken machine,
my back on a black
Tempur-Pedic mattress,

the room is cold,
because hospitals – the only evidence
of the 21st Century –
are always
cold,

I am staring at the ceiling
again,
my eyes melting
in the bright
surgery light,
my stomach
another
panic twist,

they call
the morphine
twilight:

my mouth
is a warrior
for the word.