Sick Report

The Consultant diagnosed sickness, prescribed two tablets
one yellow one blue; after a chat with the patient his
report was concise: she is
sick to her stomach of all the melodrama
sick in her mind from explosions in the present tense
sick in her body from heavy weather in the bones
sick of those detergent hands cleaning her dreams
sick of searching for the dignity she lost ('whereabouts unknown' underlined in red)
sick at rhyming all the words she learns
sick of the skinpain from touching inhumans
sick of hope rotting, the scourge of the past
sick of power-ropes tightening like a noose
sick of her face in the mirror, tincture of glass 
telling her insecure truth. 
Musing a moment pen in mouth, he added:
sick to death of life; concluded:
White room number six ought to do the trick.
Nice padding.
Collected Works
Return to Collections all
next poem