I was on the road again
lying awake up with pillows and pink acrylic blankets
in the back of the car.
Was the laughter a part of a recent dream?
It was difficult to remember, and I was repeating myself.
Night sweats plastered my hair to the side of my face.
In the back, it still hung ragged
where I cut off the blood and sweat matted clumps
with the strangely shaped silver scissors that
the night nurse inadvertently left on the table.
It was dark. "Come over and talk to me," Margaret had said.
"I can't because my leg is broken."
"Your leg is broken? How do you get around?" she asked
In the morning she was dead.
On ArtsWire, Valerie, also, has been "lying awake".