having ended ass up
in the hospital
quite unexpectedly
I had nothing to write on
or to write with
(they were taking all my blood
for one test or another)
so I began composing poems
in my head

poems about the hospital & nurses
& other things as I imagined
black ink on white paper

the nurses kept wanting to open
the blinds to let the outside light
brighten my room

but to their dismay
I insisted on darkness
so I could picture
white paper in a black typewriter
(an old Underwood portable that
Kenneth Patchen wrote his first
four books on & I would write
my first novel on that Miriam
had gave me)
that sits on a stand of its own
next to my bed

& day & night when not being
poked, prodded, pilled or pushed
the words began flowing

& these words & the image of
white paper in that old black typewriter
& the  sound of the birds singing
outside my window at night
are what kept me
& the words going

ah, the sound of the birds singing
sound even more beautiful &
wondrous tonight laying here
in my own bed waiting for more
black words to spill upon this white paper
of the notebook I am scrawling in
as the typewriter sits smiling nearby
awaiting its turn once again


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