Lawrence Eby, Issue 17.2


Noon. The humtraffic is a distant pressure

cooker, it is on top. The partner

hides the disease. There is shame

vacant in the hospital room. There is

shame in the hospital

room. With the remote, we check

for tumors, a kidney failing. A liver

dances in the body. It is all too

quiet, even this pulsing ambient ghost

bending the air. Blinds

closed, the seats

against the table’s thin

plastic coating. This is now

the American death, a room

a bed, these vacant chairs.


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