Unimaginable, unendurable, everlasting, iatrogenic boredom. Time himself lies comatose in a bed identical to mine. I've been in the hospital a week. This is a true story about the flesh-and-blood me, a.k.a I, barely even a poem. They do, you know what they do, IVs, blood-oxies, hypos, tubes, BPs all hours. At night an LNA comes with some pills in a pleated paper cup, none of them mind-altering. One day they tell me they're going to inject me with a mild anesthetic for something they have a mind to do, the kind that leaves you conscious of new surroundings, deep silence deep inside you, warmth, water lillies, flowing away to a pleasant iatrogenic staycation. I smile my understaning Why did they wait so long? Finally!
Bill, beautiful and scary. The second section reminded me of a Dylan song!