(no subject)
Soggy paper clings to the eyes
And soon it will cling to the floor,
if no one cleans up “Who did this?”
I can’t quite remember,
And who really cares?
I contract my knees and fold on myself
Elevator-like,
We are now on the same level.
My tired un-kissed,
un-stroked cheek presses itself
To the floor as I extract unseen tears.
Squished under the weight of my bloated head
Soggy pink paper whispers an oozing song
Of drunken poets.
I am wet behind the ears.
“Who did this? Someone, call the ambulance.”
People shuffle for their mobile phones.
A dozen ambulances were required.
Yet, I could have used with none.
I wish I had a pen,
or I wish I had the unbroken limbs
to fetch one.
I would have scribbled my greatest,
most phenomenal,
world-wide,
Nobel Prize wining poem
if it weren’t for those damn doctors.