Camoflauge

They die too loudly here -
a barking, trumpeting sound
that keeps everyone else
awake.
Some say it is the salt
in the water
tickling through the IV
or the televisions or microwaves
talking in each room.
I can hear the hum of metal
each time the nurse
shifts her skirt
or leans over
to tie her shoes.

They come too close
to us,
afraid of camoflauge
of the smell of orange
and then pretend
they did not mean it.
Lunch is biscuits
and rice pudding or
green jello in a styrofoam cup
and a straw
puncturing a carton of milk.

At night we play cards -
spades or hearts
or dominoes with tiles
someone's uncle left behind
or forgot to put away.
And we will sleep
at some point,
some urgent need
to avoid pollution -
a small white pill
hidden under our tongues
for good luck

As we toss under
little fevers
and damp blankets,
pretending the corridors
will keep their distance.