Some of the crushed bulbs
at the front of the house
still flashed a little at the filament.
The tapwater ran outside
into grass, hair and lice molasses
underneath the spare bricks.
I was held outside the entrance
with my head between my knees,
waiting for the nurse
to move in my things.
There's space still available here.
As I followed him inside, I swore
I could smell my mother;
somebody had painted all the walls yellow
(so they would look wider).
The carpet was free of any rogue hairs,
any that might've added detail;
they hired somebody a week before
to shave my head and body.
I lit up my last cigarette,
ventured upstairs, found my dorm
just next to the bathroom
and reminded myself of the rules:
NO RAZORS, NO SHOELACES.
(There's space still available here.)
I heard the pipes click
and turn over water,
the constant rhythm of bones
that sit between chlorinate walls.
And I watched the nurse
as he prepared our supper;
he followed me into my dorm every day,
pulling the trolley beside him.
While swallowing yellow root
and spiderflower, being fed by hand,
and being led to the spoon, I noticed
that his fingers had a strangeness,
a fluid and deliberate movement.
There is still space available here.