The Hospital Bed

He was taken to the “new hospital”
with pains in his chest—
in the hands of interns.
Funny word, “intern”—it’s what
prisoner camps are called—internment
camps, where people die,
their bodies interned—buried.

I thought about the new accommodations,
the room and the bed, being newly
roomy and hospital-bedly. Crisp
linens, like a hotel with tight corners;
they engulfed him snugly,
confining him like the guilty bulge
of a snake visiting kittens.

I thought more and more
about the bed. What does a bed like this cost?
Could I get one for home?
It moved in every possible position.
I pushed him aside and I tried it out
with my girlfriend.
It snuggled-schnuckums perfectly.
Don’t judge me.

It was then, as I had those thoughts,
fully-blown romantic bedly-thoughts,
that they discharged him, like a gun. BAM
That was it. It was over. He was going
home—in the ridiculous wheelchair.
That lucky bastard in the ridiculous wheelchair—
I wanted one too.

And so it was that he let me have a spin,
being twins and sneaky that way—
the nurses never knew. That’s how we roll
and we don’t care what you think about it.

There it was, that
I gained a new vantage point
from the wheeled chair.
I saw the bed. It was smiling now,
the curve of the mattress arching—

it seemed to be inviting me back,
back into its gentle embrace; It wanted me,
maybe it wanted schnuckums back too.
I could feel something going on inside my head—
the "new hospital" was really not that new.

I began to wonder, how many others the bed embraced? The dead others,
those who never went home—those bed-swallowed-others.

The bed was on wheels too,
still smiling,
hearkening a grin,

and I noticed the sheets were not crisp anymore.
They hung there like loose skin
sagging in the drooping corners.

It was feigning.
Do you understand?

I wouldn’t have a bed like that—
not if it were free.