The Fan on Her Hair

Thus follows the first night's sleeplessness with another of weary.

The fan on her hair

showed it tacky and matte.

Though cooling and drying

its sheen was still flat.

 

Her bedclothes were rumpled,

all shapeless with lumps,

some soiled with sore discharge,

some mechanical humps.

 

Tubes are her life-lines,

their measuring drips.

The I.V. the O2,

the bag at her hips.

 

The flowers arrayed

in bright orange and deep green,

are lifeless and cheering,

and made to be seen.

 

There's cards and some hand cream,

there's books quite a few,

there's cups and their straws,

and ice cubes she can chew.

 

But one thing, I spy,

more beautiful to me,

my wife on the up-swing,

so lovely to see.

 

Though beaten and brused,

and hurts everywhere.

She's starting to sit up

and sleep in her chair.

 

Her lips are now cracked,

a tube up her nose.

The socks that they've fitted

inflate round her toes.

 

Yet all of the gadgets

mans thinking can make.

Will not change her beauty,

nor cause it to break.

Author's Note

Sorry, but I see everything in rhyme; the school I attended went way back. I even spent time in the 'Dunce's Chair'. I wrote my first prose on four wall blackboards; 'I will not daydream in this class.' again and again and again and again, ad infinitum.

Reviews

[Kathy Van Kurin]

LSS,
"The fan on her hair" inspires the hope and reality of the inner fire of love. The outer person though in a bed of recuperation is given the nearness of one wishing her only well; this is the true medicine. This is a story of seeing what is and wanting to believe any little bit of good and just be encouraged that more good is coming bit by bit. This piece was a Beautiful and heart felt writing with a lot to think about which I surly have. Thank you and God Bless Kathy

[Michael V]

Man, you got an (i mean this as no disrespect) almost Dr. Seuss style going, if i had that...who nelly. I love your style, dont try to complicate things youll lose the magic, nice job, well written...