you awaken
to the screech of drilling machinery
with the cold seeping through your blankets
with the taste of bile at the back of your throat
with the itching of your amputated arm
and the glare of a flashlight knifing
into your pried-open eye.
someone mutters “responsive.”
..
worst of all is the gnawing of drug-hunger
because you used your last dose to sleep.
..
“hank,” says the voice that had muttered,
“we’re going to plug you in.”
“okay,” you croak.
..
a lovely nude woman under the sheets with you
kisses you awake.
spring sunshine streams through the window
and the dust-motes drift in the sunbeams.
you smile at the woman and reach for her
with your arms, but she gently pushes you back
and slides out of bed, lifting a bathrobe
from the back of a chair and saying
“got to stir the eggs before they burn. brb.”
you stare in amazement at your two good arms
clad in pajamas sleeves. breakfast smells waft
from the kitchen–
then all goes dark and cold.
..
the last words you hear are
“power outage. we better put this poor bastard
out of his misery.”
One with Clay, Image and Text 