The Hospital Bed
This hospital bed told me secrets about grateful I did not have before I climbed aboard its tomb like a corpse stuck in the trunk of a car. My tongue works better after the blood has time to soak in-- sealing wax on an envelope of flesh I didn't choose. Toe-nails clipped. An easy reach. A simple task. The network nuance of knives changed this fact. Bending was impossible. So the moons just grew and grew and grew. Mahogany bones now say "please" and "thank you" when they move. Rising from a chair is now a church pew with a proper chill.