GETTING LATE

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 25, 2016

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Submitted: September 25, 2016

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It's getting late, she said,
you should go back to
bed. Can't sleep, I said.
Haven't you taken the pill?

Doesn't work. Ought to
knock you out. It doesn't.
Maybe ought to get you
something stronger, she

said. I looked around her
small night office; outside
in the corridor the rooms
of men and woman sleeping,

unlike me. What did you want?
she asked. To talk. About what?
Going home, I said. Not yet.
When? When you are ready,

she said, turning a page of the
magazine she was reading.
When will that be? Up to the
doctor. But I want to go now.

She stared at me. Not yet give
it a few more weeks, she said.
I can't function here. Others do,
they get better and go home.

When can I see him? Who?
The quack, I said, getting annoyed.
Doctor is busy, but I will mention
when he comes in the morning

you wish to see him, she said.
She turned another page and
gazed at the article. I can't sleep
I stare at the room and hear

the old farts snoring, I said. Go
back to bed, and rest or you will
be tired in the morning, she said.
Who's the nurse who comes in

with blonde hair and sways her
ass like a sower of seeds? I said.
She looked at me. Why? She makes
my day, I said. How? Gives me

something to think about while
I'm locked here in this madhouse.
She looked at the page :go now
and try to sleep. Can I have a drink?

I asked. What did you want? Cocoa.
Will you promise me to go to bed
afterwards? On my own? Yes on
your own, she said. Yes I promise.

She got up and walked off to the
kitchen. I sat and gazed at the
wall, and at a photograph calendar
of the sea and a bird in flight; I
thought the flying bird was me.


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