There’s so much sick 
on these walls, 
even after 

they painted them 
over in pacific green. 
I couldn’t get rid of  

the dead whales’ bones 
in bedside drawers, 
so I still hold on tight 

to Gideon’s book before 
tumors are cut 
into shapes of flowers, 

left as monster seeds 
in silver bins. 
Standing in a paper 

blue coat
I stare at my styrofoam 
coffee cup

to avoid the children
looking from behind 
waiting room windows.