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.
-1976-
- - -
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa.
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.
-1976-
- - -
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa.
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