POETRY Nancy Duci Denofio

The Sick Room

A cable line runs beneath
radiators generating heat;
you are in bed, one ear smothered
by a feather pillow, the other listening.

"Good Morning America."

A thumb, pushes a button,
every station is talking about
a man who killed his family
in a fit of rage.

Good Morning America, repeats,
“He was known as a man
who cared about his family.”

Blinds cover cheap
windows while cool air
seeps between a frame.

A thumb, pushes a button
changing the channel.

The room begins to blur,
eyes foggy; where is Discovery?
Speech slurred, some man is
talking about dinosaurs, and
creatures that roamed earth.

Push. Push.

A man touched some rock,
played games with monkeys,
made friends with a bear...

Swallowed pills - in the sick room.

Discovery Channel" still on
showing the remains; a skeleton.
Water came first, before
the mountains.
The screen projects a
four legged creature, a monster.

The room is foggy; a head
rests on a stack of pillows and
a needle is inserted into a vein.
A clear liquid drips slowly. . .

A sweater is hanging from
a bedpost.

The control for the television
is floating, and you can’t catch
it. You reach, the needle
is gone.

A picture on a night stand,
the eyes grow larger, come
closer, then back away –
people separate into pieces.

“Discovery,” is gone.

Who placed a quilt on the
bed?

Push. Push. A man is on
praising a man who killed
his family.

Nancy Duci Denofio
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