Archived Writing

Bed of down and gown of white makes

Brian Warshaw wonder why folks

bother coming here at all; this

hopsital looks too clean.

Fever reads a hundred-point-two

on baby's violating probe

thermometer; it's not so clean

in these white halls, now is it?

Waiting is my mortal foe; I'm

losing patience watching plumpish

doctor types walk past; in anger

Brian Warshaw's thoughts aren't white.

Two A.M.:doctor hasn't shown.

Brian Warshaw moans a mixture

born of boredom, born of spleen.

Like the bed I'm

Like the gown I'm

Like the halls I'm

Clean

Out of patience