Six Feet Under By Tanja Bulovic

I wonder how far the ceiling is from this bed.

About six feet?

Yes, I’d say about six.

It’s like a tomb

But you can leave if you want to.

My doctor finds me amusing.

“Anything else?” she asks

Like a waitress.

“A cup of morphine, please.”

She laughs

And says I don’t need it.

I get off the bed, pay her

Even though I didn’t get what I ordered,

Then go home

To write poetry.