Quiet Hours Passing

by Michael Lee Johnson

You rest
in this empty hospital room.
Your repetitious words, spoken to yourself, stumble over one another.
Everything is in holes and pieces.
The strange ear-ringing sounds of silence
broken by occasional voices in the hall,
the shadows pushing the lights
around like street bullies,
the sparse furniture all changed, each strange piece
placed differently than you would have it at home.
But you’re not at home, you’re
in this empty hospital room, resting.
Everything is in holes and pieces.