Hey, wasn't anyone listening
to the words in that last song?
They limped out of his mouth
like wounded beasts shambling
to their ancestral death grounds?

Or hold. Perhaps I've gone too far.
True, his delivery's akin to a sopping wet kazoo.
But I'm here with you,
so this night's been upgraded to
a standard-issue guilty pleasure.

The rhythm of the hospital
(Run around, run around until these errands are done)
departs so slowly from us now
(Come around, come around to this one).

Heads pump to serviceable beats.
The music threatening to speak to me.
It's letters vs. numbers.
When you turn to me and laugh so loud
you drop your battered crutches to the ground,
it's letters vs. numbers.

And I fear I'm on every side.

You, in the years I've been around,
you've skirmished with death
and defeated it somewhat,
though it does creep back through tiny cracks
that have been left unattended.

So, though it's vanquished once again,
sometimes the most harmless things
adopt a sinister resonance.
But let this doubt be balanced out
with recognition of its absence.

The rhythm of the hospital
(Run around, run around until these errands are done)
departs so slowly from us now
(Come around, come around to this one).

Cards lining on the windowsills
obscure the phalanx of impending bills.
It's letters vs. numbers.
When the meniscus of our cheapest wine
drops below a certain line,
it's letters vs. numbers.

And I feel I'm on every side.

I watched cartoons on hospital TVs
with academic solemnity.
It's letters vs. numbers.
Now you're asleep between familiar walls.
I feel the sweet math of your pulse.
It's letters vs. numbers.

I'm on every side.
It's letters vs. numbers.