Blood pressure cuff tickles, don't laugh
or the nurse will think you're crazy.
Canula is so sharp that it feels like
the sting of a wasp that never leaves
There's waiting- and a blanket that's warm
but made of holes, like a fishing net.
Lights are dim, and behind the curtain
another man softly coughs from time
Then transport to a cold room, and saline
floods my arm, and I'm no longer thirsty.
I face a wall that shifts from orange to brown
in my gaze, and I think about dying
We all die alone, it is the last journey
taken. Where will I go? Will I die now?
Routine surgery, low risk, probably not.
A mask on my face, a shudder of pain in my arm