I'm gazing at a ceiling,
designed by a minimalist
My patience screams,
my eyes drip.
The caffeine addicts,
chase nurses for small change.
I could have a cigarette,
from my overcoat.
What with its loose tobacco,
dark secrets,
and sorrow.
But I don't want to smoke,
these days.
So I'll wait.
Me and my baby,
in the Clair de Lune.
Just us.
Mr Debussy,
the coughing,
and my severed head.
