The room is a circle
of muted pain.
An offshoot of time—
a new hour passing,
a button to push,
the middle finger a red baton
of silence…
96 95 94 95…
I’ve become a trauma troll,
a drama doll,
the Prince of Pudding.
You are the Queen of Everything,
for whom I try not to petition;
the bearer of truth on a tray,
little white cups to deliver
what comes next:
the next little yeses
the little nos.