WINTER 2016 ISSUE
February 17, 2016
Digging in the Sand
Prescription for Stress
The Soprano down the Hall
That Time of Day
Way of All Flesh
From the symptoms now my visitors,
the malady now my nurse.
The sickrooms that are her breasts,
the hospice that is her heart.
From the pills my straightjacket,
and the tourniquet now my jewels.
From the dressing gown now my couture,
from my brain now scrambled eggs.
This sickbed now my home. No lamen-
tations, no solemn odes. No swan song,
so tears of woe. Just cheers all ‘round
drowning out these constant throes.