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.
