You watch some cable after postoperative haze.
Out on the street, people:
in directions they carry their health.
On the edges of the city, cornfields.
Where you sit, a philodendron grows under
florescent lights. There is no street.
There are mannered gestures.
There is a preview on the screen
of a video game with zombie jesters.
The room is impressively clean
but you make no comment.
Those people aren’t here now.
You have two hands, a back.
You have closed a lot of doors
and are thinking of a back door
to an imaginary winter
where you’d be warm in mittens.
You’d just stand there.