With the room spinning around me
I clutch the bedsheets tight in fevered hands,
sweating, yet freezing cold.
Can I get you anything? my wife asks.
I need, I mutter, p-p…
Painkillers? She suggests.
No, I need p-p…
A prescription? Should I call the doctor?
No, I need p-p…
Pillows? Do you need more pillows
to prop you up?
I gesture to the thin book on the night-stand
pointing frantically,
like a man stranded on a desert island
waving for rescue.
Poetry, I say,
I need poetry.