Things I Got Used To Amy Worgan

Things I Got Used To

Elderly men in the cardio unit In all their rice-papered layers Skin tucked, folded, hands in prayer

That brilliant teal-green relief map Weaving in and out of the world here Enveloped in powder blue

Fingernails – pale yellow moons With eyebrows that jut like wire brushes There’s no objection to the paper gowns –

A man in a dress is sick either way The world spins like a rum-induced Friday Catching liquid bile in cardboard bowls

Some are raw-boned with pot bellies Others might deflate with a cough Some breathe until they don’t with one eye open Or reach on tiptoe to hang their own cross.

Amy Worgan

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