Bristles fall into my eyes as I lie supine
on what used to be a bed but now resembles
a garden of rotting vegetables, while above
drums beat metronomically at my ceiling light,
wishing that they could breathe through like
the wind instruments do, so well.
A chair rocks while the bed squeals and howls
and begs for the deaf people to cease their
fighting against its face, gasping for breath
just as they do, once in a while.
I close my eyes against the purple speckles
that usually indicate sickness but now only
mean that I have missed out on something,
something above me that whistles to the tune
of some unknown Disney song, and diamond
mines don't, more often than not.
Three more squeaks penetrate my wall before one
last groan of the bedsheets and carpets to the
music that they thought they made, but only the
real saxophonists do, at all.
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