There’s nothing romantic about hospital food or gowns,
cotton worn thin by bleach and bodies before yours,
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with too much jam
that will– for years – remind you of flying chairs,
a pretty twenty-two-year-old standing with her foot in the door
while you shit, watching you read and sleep and rock and mostly stare
a hallway of locked doors your fingers itch to open.