Hothouse Art

Too early for visiting hours

yesterday, pacing up & down

not corridors but avenues

I saw red, gold, & blue awnings,

rainbow stalls in windows,

picked out the tightest white rosebuds

already overblown.

Bruised petals curl into edges

dropping on the commode

& straight-backed chair

beside your bed.

The only thing that flourishes

in this overheated box with its faint

ammonia smell

is the patient herself:

eyelids, bright blue

as this winter afternoon's

unseasonably sunny, cloudless sky;

lips like dolls' scarlet

matching the cheek's perfect circle-

the house beautician's

made you blush like a corpse.