I've lain in this bed growing
for hundreds of years,
with the sad pale walls fading
and hoping they'll feel shadows again.
I wonder if they really remember?
My head is huge, my belly bigger,
my body made of concrete but
possibly rotting. I fear
the mattress on the floor has flattened,
and outside I hear my mother's
persistent plea, begging
Please get better.
Get better for me.
Doesn't she know I'm only biding time?
I listen and watch
the city crouch, the people skulk
restlessly through their days.
The way they whisper at night to God!
Don't they guess it's only me, in my sleep
who answers? I wonder if my mother
will recognize the beast she bore
when it finally rises from this room?