observations from a hard plastic chair

every man’s socks look dingier under the fluorescent E-R lights. the nurse
wears false eyelashes on the midnight shift; they ask why i’m here.
her pulled-out tee shows tops of oranged cleavage we pretend to not
see. there is urine under your bed when they roll you away, but not yours.
the stain clashes well with the grey-green tile, just the color of stale love.
the nurse, eyes on the desk now, is talking about another patient.
“suicidal.” “schizophrenic.” i can hear her calling from here.