I stare
into the linoleum void.
Cold it is.
Cold I feel.
Not so cold
as I could soon be.

Inhospitable
hospital.

Why?
My heart,
though stronger,
still ain’t
got
no
rhy-
thumumum.

So masked men
must stop-start it
again,
wire me up,
make me tubular,
give me the ultimate
heart burn.

Cauterize
my over-sized pump
that’s too energized.
That won’t sing: Thump Thump.
Thump Thump.

I hope it works
this time.
But if it doesn’t?
Who should I tell
that I might not return?

My mother worries enough
for the world.
She makes every
small
procedure
into some giant event.
Munchhausen by proxy.

So,
if I go,
I know
she’ll tell,
but probably
only my family.

My friends?
What of them?
She won’t know.

Perhaps Facebook quiet
will spread the word.
If you haven’t heard
by Saturday,
that I’m out …
I’m probably not.
Or maybe
I permanently
am.