SUICIDAL IDEATION

Drowning in a sea of antiseptics—
METASTESIZE,
is the only word I can still spell.
I miss the comfort of warm thighs,
the alabaster pillows where I rested
my weary head. None of the young
nurses will cooperate as they did
for Hemingway, the wounded soldier.
I overhear doctors and nurses
in an anesthesia-induced reverie
yapping about which of my body
orifices they plan to invade next
to make holes in my body and soul.
Stop the needles tearing at my flesh—
fumbling with IV pricks,
brutalizing my dick with catheters
and a feeding tube I don’t want.
I stare at the sun outside my window
hoping it will trigger a sizzle of lightening
to clean up the toxic maze of my mind.
Otherwise, I’ll soon start to sing,
Leave me alone, and let me go,
the moaning song I used to hear
visiting old friends in nursing homes.
If that doesn’t work, the comfort of a clean bullet
zooming through my head is definitely my plan.