hospital food by sherman alexie
this was the prose poem i found as a sophomore in high school that really woke up my poetic senses for the first time that i can remember.
HOSPITAL FOOD
All day I have been waiting for the first sandwich in the lunch of dreams. There is a nurse wearing red shoes who brings me ice cream in the middle of the night, feeds me like a child. "Son", she whispers. "The elevator doors of the future are closing tight on your foot." Often she will sing to me, teach me the lyrics of obscure show tunes. "Nurse," I ask one night. "Do you want to learn the songs I know? The songs of horses exploding, broken glass, light breaking through used coffee filters, and empty paper bags?" She leaned over me and whispered, "Young Indian boy, you are stumbling off the escalator of desire." In bed next to me in the semi-private room paid for by the BIA, a sixteen-year-old white boy with a bad heart. He sleeps under the oxygen tent at night. His parents have become afraid of him, send him postcards from San Fransisco, Disneyland, Sea World. They sent him a MONOPOLY game and we play until he runs out of breath. "It's the money," he says. "The money is too damn heavy." At night I lay awake listening to his breathing, measure it against mine. Some nights I stand over him, stare down through the clear plastic of his tent. "This is your temporary atmosphere," I whisper to him. "Your body is lying to itself 45 times a minute." Every breath is a treaty. One night I crawled under the sheets with him, placed my dark hand on his pale, scarred chest. His heartbeat felt like coins dropping into a collection plate. "Young white boy," I whispered. "When you are gone, I will need your steel-toed boots." His breath slowed, his eyes opened, and he said, "I understand your needs, but it is too late. Your right foot is bleeding profusely."
HOSPITAL FOOD
All day I have been waiting for the first sandwich in the lunch of dreams. There is a nurse wearing red shoes who brings me ice cream in the middle of the night, feeds me like a child. "Son", she whispers. "The elevator doors of the future are closing tight on your foot." Often she will sing to me, teach me the lyrics of obscure show tunes. "Nurse," I ask one night. "Do you want to learn the songs I know? The songs of horses exploding, broken glass, light breaking through used coffee filters, and empty paper bags?" She leaned over me and whispered, "Young Indian boy, you are stumbling off the escalator of desire." In bed next to me in the semi-private room paid for by the BIA, a sixteen-year-old white boy with a bad heart. He sleeps under the oxygen tent at night. His parents have become afraid of him, send him postcards from San Fransisco, Disneyland, Sea World. They sent him a MONOPOLY game and we play until he runs out of breath. "It's the money," he says. "The money is too damn heavy." At night I lay awake listening to his breathing, measure it against mine. Some nights I stand over him, stare down through the clear plastic of his tent. "This is your temporary atmosphere," I whisper to him. "Your body is lying to itself 45 times a minute." Every breath is a treaty. One night I crawled under the sheets with him, placed my dark hand on his pale, scarred chest. His heartbeat felt like coins dropping into a collection plate. "Young white boy," I whispered. "When you are gone, I will need your steel-toed boots." His breath slowed, his eyes opened, and he said, "I understand your needs, but it is too late. Your right foot is bleeding profusely."