On detours at the stroke of ____

They speak; they do not acknowledge

-          I listen.

One says that today I have a new lease on life.

I hope they’re paying.

Another says that tomorrow I’ll return to my original bed.

I hope they’ve washed the sheets.

It’s a roller coaster, says a nurse as her Bic scratches.

The fabric of their uniform itches.

They drink; they do not offer to share.

I want to eat –

liverwurst on rye
bologna on Wonder
spicy mustard
Breyer’s vanilla ice cream
melted marshmallow

Sun pools at their socked feet - striped, skid-proof, safe.

I’d wash fresh pairs, 100% cotton, regularly.

Their voices convey so much authority.

Some detour! What a ride!

I am immobile. I am alive.

I wonder what game the universe thinks it’s playing.

Charades or Poker? War or Peace?

I want to know --

when will they realize I still drive?