you can run you can run
you find yourself asking
is this all there is
surrounded by strangers
feverishly attempting
to pump life
back inside you
there’s a resident priest
hanging outside the doorway
adjusting his off white collar
you’ve enough strength to yell
he’s on the wrong floor
they push against your shoulders
until your head sinks
back into the pillow
promising not to
suffocate you with it
as long as you stop all this fighting
reluctantly you agree
under a number of conditions
including to kindly ask the angel
sitting silently in the far corner
to get the hell out of dodge
october two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
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