Technicolor

Squeaking in 

With understated 

White shoes

The nurse takes my

Vital signs in silence.

I appreciate

The detached coolness

Of her skin on mine,O2 levels and 

Temperature, unremarkable. 

But 

the velcro of a 

Blood pressure cuff

Sealed us together

For an instant. 

And as if she realized 

This intimacy was finite

She stabs the silence quickly

“You’re the same height

As Judy Garland, it

Says so in your chart.”

And the velcro rips.

120/80

She leaves the room with the

Weight of equipment and duty.

She cannot know

That comment has ripped 

me apart ten ways to Sunday. 

Cannot know that I see with the same

Shined eyes

Speak with the same 

Shake of a pill bottle. 

A death rattle too soon. 

I fill my thicket

Of pills through a window. 

Black Tea in the morning

To clear the head.

Dancing through life

With a smile blind-stitched to skin. 

Judy, a kinship like a pinky promise. 

And she could live without money

But not without love

But what if you have neither.

Passing the either

To fall asleep next to a man

Who does not understand how

You can cry

Over a star long burnt out

And doesn’t care to ask. 

And I can see her through

The benzo haze like

Standing in front of a trick mirror. 

Technicolor. 

And I want to ask her

“Was Mickey love

Or 

Nurse

And which

Is more helpful

When you’re running out

Of yellow bricks?”