the hospital

the dull hum of the air handler
creates enough white noise
that you could easily fall asleep,
if not for the fact that
you sit in the foyer of the
house of death,
watching as all the wounded
and afflicted in the world
wander by, seeking aid,
searching for cures,
for hope in a hopeless world,
scrubbed daily for all that it's worth,
bleached and sterilized
by the terrified,
the keepers of empty whiteness
and blank minds,
that have never savored sonnets,
or gently kissed nipples of elegance,
nor drunk deeply a fine Port,
while the taste of a good brie lingers:
kept clean,
and so left barren.

November 12, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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