CHANNELS
Noon. The humtraffic is a distant pressure
cooker, it is on top. The partner
hides the disease. There is shame
vacant in the hospital room. There is
shame in the hospital
room. With the remote, we check
for tumors, a kidney failing. A liver
dances in the body. It is all too
quiet, even this pulsing ambient ghost
bending the air. Blinds
closed, the seats
against the table’s thin
plastic coating. This is now
the American death, a room
a bed, these vacant chairs.