by Mike Vance
Tears, projectile weeping, my eyes puke
The triage, the moments of truth
After two hours the nurse comes by
and closes the curtain
I lay there and shake while I squirm
Finally, the doc comes in
The poking and probing (ah fuck!)
The incisions are made, he pries open the wounds
Puss erupts from my frail arms
I watch with twisted fascination
Gasp. (What the fuck?)
Three paramedics close me in
As I snap out of death’s hand
I look down, my shirt is cut down the center
What the hell is this about?
You were dead
You OD’d
OK, but how did I get clear over here
from way over there?
Just be quiet son
You’re coming with us
Just get me some mac-n-cheese so I can go home.
I stumble from the hospital scrubs and all
and went to the liquor store
Goddamn, did I think I was tough?
Kathie, we’d like you to come down
and identify your son
Sorry ma’am