THE MEMORIES OF ISOLATION
Here in this room : window'd glass on the
padded blue doors which swing to and fro with
nurses carrying trays, nurses pushing carts. What's
it all for, I still wonder. To and from, this way and
that, every day is the same blue morning. I stir a bit,
alone, but muse on about my station and my place.
-
I've got nothing to atone for : in this contraption, whether
they call it a powered bed or a rolling chair, who knows,
I can do no evil. I read and swivel these aching hips. I fill
out, miraculously, a food chart, day by day - what I select,
I suppose, they bring. Who knows and I never check.
-
Visitors are like people looking into a tomb : perhaps
they see me, but I 'pretend' not to see back. At this degree
of circumstance I'd rather play dead, have no truck with their
business, return the mail that fools send. I know there are no
lights here, but please turn them out.
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