Poetry | Journal

the socks the hospital sent me home in
are green. Google tells me that means
Independant. I’ll take it.
The ominous threat of a biting winter
has my wallet wrung out and shivering
much like how I wake from anesthesia, freezing.
I dont remember waking this time though
and wonder how long I was independant
before awareness caught up
with my tremor struck hands
lifting a styrofoam cup of ginger ale
in a chair, in backwards underwear
I am not entierly sure who put on.
Anesthesia is a terrifying thing
to surrender your mind to
to wait for the bill for
I just hope the universe knows
poetry does not keep the lights on
so these socks better hold up
their end of the bargain
and get me back on my feet
before the storms