WHAT IS REAL?

At times, the blood pressure cuff felt like your hand, but it was not. The shakes were enough, like you were there shaking me. It was just the cloud of morphine, there was nobody there, but a small man in the corner. He was drunk, like my old boyfriend. I don't know how he got into the hospital room, but he listened to my life story, eventhough my breathe smelled of old stomach pain and fevers.
When I was sent home, I discovered he came with me. In the morning, all hungover, he was making oatmeal and toast. What a night, he blasted at me. I sat down at the table and he gifted me a bowl.
You were like an owl hooting for a mate, so I just thought you really needed me to be by your side.
This must still be the morphine or a drip dream. My feet were firmly planted on the carpet and this carpet is no joke.
So how are you?And how did I let you in?
You let me in, I let myself in.
I do it all the time, when I find people in the hospital talking away in mutters. You were all mutters too.
What did I say?
Your head would pop. You talked of your serious army wound, I checked and all, but I found it hard think you were in Korea, being young. You said the war was like the best sex you ever had, so I had to linger kid, because, well who would leave ya?
He starting smoking a pipe. He looked so ageless.
I must still be in the hospital. This oatmeal tastes straight from Ireland. I am twenty years old. Prison, but war.


The doctor came in calling my name. A hard tap drum. Waking up in a bed with a sheet on you an all medical-speaking white coat freak is undescriptive.
Your alive kid, but you need significant help. Your re-uptakers and dopamine are playing dirty tricks on your brain......
Wait, is he a beat poet now, where is the old man in the stinky corner and my oatmeal.

Wait, come closer vision. This is not real.