Don't Ask Me What The Stickers Said. (p.)

Today, I woke up in the Poughkeepsie Hospital,
darkly early as usual,
at 5AM I could figure I slept a good 
 seven hours, I had 
the energy to pace myself 
be & contribute to the day ahead of me. 

Alright, the nurses aren't clever enough 
 to bend rules 
 for coffee 
but then again it's not long and 
you've got tea and fresh orange juice 
plus whatever nicotine & fire in your 
system. 

You watch one or two, or two or three 
 episodes 
of The Wire, remember 
things like: 
vigilance & retribution; honor & livelihood; nobility & sacrifice. 
You can think of the things you've lost--I have--or you 
can run an inventory of what's made it thru, what 
stays in your blood and synapses and the 
nervous/muscular-tissue of your body, 
knowing everything else was 
fated for impermanence. 

Today, at the hospital, they accused me of 
sneaking into some girl's room (which I 
had not) when I was reading the inspirational 
stickers on her door. Said I'd violated 
a rehab policy I'd signed an agreement to. 
This girl I'd been making casual conversation with...
for about a day...before some goofy friendly 
potato of a man said I couldn't...then, 
later, just waiting to use the phone, I read 
those stickers... And a couple hours after that 
they said I had to leave. 

I'm not sure what the lesson here is, 
sitting in front of the Lexington Center 
in Page Park, waiting for the doors to open, 
hoping they can get me a room in some Sober House, 
and put some new things in the impermanence 
 column. 





**** 

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