Six beds of restless men - a poem

I’ve been so long in this hospital bed, my QR code has faded,

I cannot sleep at night.

Six beds of restless men, the detritus of the state,

Try to sleep, with eyes tight shut, lie fearful of the permanent night, 

to the summer whisper of the cubicle curtains.

Six beds of restless men, the broken backbone of the state.

Some lie bewildered, lost and lying solo,

Some race down the corridor, crying to go home, with the night shift in vexed pursuit,

‘I want to go home,’

‘You cannot make me go to bed! Fuuuck the other patients. I want to go home,’

Their cries echo around the midnight corridor while the world outside’s asleep.

Six beds of restless men, worn down to the napping cardiac wards.

All dreaming of going home.

One rises, wanders naked - the ward’s doors offer escape: 

With little shame and vacant stare, told by the chasing nurses, ‘to put on something’, announces grandly.

‘This morning, I’m making breakfast…’

This and other poems from The Soliloquist Jornal - Summer 2026 can be found here:
 The Soliloquist Journal – Summer 2026