Poetry Issue 9

   Issue # 9: January-June 2008

Rebecca Givens



Impressions of the Hospital


      Bluely, the world emerges: a story of doctors and patients.
      Doctors fall down, patients get up; the way of the world.

      Humpty Dumpty had a thriving company till that morning
      when his train (meaning ticker) went off track and splashed

      him sideways, stellar: a juggled man, a not-like-an-egg sort
      of thing. In the borderless wards, they built him back (but never

      prepared him for his apple-face.) Afterwards, half-cracked,
      he heads for home. Followed by no sheriff, wanted by no man,

      he gathers leaves of maple and oak, twirls them around in his
      hands. Though they’d never grow back, he was glad to watch

      them fly into groups in the air. Collections of serrated edges,
      such winded eternities. Humpty Dumpty hasn’t been told

      where to hide; he rambles past old buildings, yards, a garage.
      One gold earring appears on the veranda; stays, shining madly,

      till noon. Blinded by its imagined owner, he shuffles indoors
      where cakes, candles, and marigolds await him, silver-eyed.