Lines Written on Nursery Wall

You bring a stalk of bamboo to the flu room. Hot pink Buddha offers some bullet-like pills from his plastic fingers. Oh high above the pecan tree, my dead grandfather walks Basil and Maestro, our two standard poodles. One’s beard is oily from the wheel of brie he’s stolen from the kitchen counter. The world works. Even from here. I can hear the buzz of machines, the clicks of pens, the secretary’s repressed anger (bites the inside of her cheek), the weird light of computer screens. The world works wonders: the cashier at Kmart rings up another self-tanning lotion. She rings up August, the ocean, a string bikini on younger flesh. Nude on bronze. Saltwater fish. The sand is piled high. It makes a wave over the pecan tree. Soon a tsunami will wash away the house, nursery. Nothing left but a palm frond, white long bone. Goodbye dog, tree, grandfather with your elk-tipped cane. The world works but not today. Not for me. Fever and the walls painted with sharks and starfish. There is so much aqua, histamine. Buddha, bring me another slice of pineapple.