Literature
Stevens Hospital, May 2006
Stevens Hospital, May 2006
Me with my wrists and ankles,
you with your rotting body.
We exchange information, because
conversation would be useless, impossible.
We do not know each other on
any basic level. We know the others'
charts; The list of our faults, our
obsessions, spelled out in cold
medical terms. There are institutions
filled with us; But we are the only two
here, curled on these cold sterile chairs.
I tell you my father has cancer, and
you tell me that you're running out
of apples. We have been playing rummy
for hours, weeks of our lives consumed.
No one will bring anything, you resign to
devouring