*picture courtesy of weinstock on pixabay.com
When I’m in the hospital, I never get good sleep.
I am poked and prodded two to four times every hour.
That translates to me not having snoozing that is deep.
Changing this is not within my doctor’s awesome power.
It’s ironic, since I’m here to rest up and get healed;
one would think a different set of rules would be in place.
The creaking of the door ensures my eyeballs both are peeled,
exhaustion evident upon my drained and weary face.
Nurses come and ask me if there’s something they can do.
I say, ‘What I’d most enjoy is being left alone.
I would like to sleep, if I could, for the whole night through,
sans machines who scream in that obnoxious, high-pitched tone.’
Yes, the nurses follow rules I know they didn’t write.
I know they do what they’ve been instructed that they must.
Still I long, when I’m this sick, to sleep through just one night.
My body would be shocked, but I’m quite sure it would adjust.
I’m grateful they look in on me and want to be of use.
But TLC is one more thing from which I’ll have to heal.
Two more days until my treatment’s done and I’m cut loose.
I’ll beg the doc to send me home, no matter how I feel.
I’ll draw the curtains, use earplugs, and crash until I’m done,
snoring loudly, dreaming, getting all the rest I can.
Slumbering till noon has passed is my idea of fun,
holding hands and skipping with that marvelous Sandman.
rhymaphilia 
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