Hospital, 3.1
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
