This is My Hospital Bed

I want to be so famous people think of me while they eat their breakfasts. There I am in your Count Chocula, between the raisins in your toast. Today I am turned on by the prospect of never waking up after drinking. Look at me, Sleeping Beauty but with a dick, sleeping. On TV Denzel Washington is chaining the hospital doors shut. He’s got a gun, deal. He says his son is sick; he can’t deal. I want to fix the boy but I’m sleeping, understand? I
missed the beginning of the movie but maybe the kid’s got a brain tumor. Maybe his heart aches when he sneezes. Maybe he can’t sneeze and there’s so much buildup in his chest—there’s only so much you can fit into a balloon. Goodness, the commercial break says, you paid that much for a haircut? Back: Denzel Washington has crazy eyes. He’s holding his gun and you just don’t know. You want to root for him and that cute ass kid, but you don’t want to see the doctors piss themselves. Or maybe you do. Maybe you want to see them pay for their dry cleaning. The doctor’s hands are sprinklers. Drip drip drip. Outside, the cops have surrounded everything worth surrounding. Inside, the boy looks like he’s dead, but maybe he’s just sleeping.

Gregory Sherl’s prose poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Quarter After Eight, Los Angeles Review, Pear Noir!, Suss, and PANK. He co-edits the online poetry journal Vinyl. He is currently an MFA candidate at Virginia Tech.