Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson.

When He Realizes I'm Awake

First he stops looking at me--
maybe I don't already know he was staring--
then he looks back
since looking away would be rude
kind of like staring
and he says,
"'Morning,"
Even though it's not.

"Morning."

My throat kills me.
I reach for the water in
the green plastic pitcher
on the table
next to bed
ringed by pink cups
the color of baby soles
and a thick bracelet chains me to the bed.

"Here."
In a stunning display of empathy
he pours a pink baby's foot cup of
green plastic pitcher water
lifts my head--
big hands, good circulation, strong fingers
(but what guitarist's aren't?)
if anyone wonders--
and helps me drink.

Some of it goes down
and some
dribbles onto my white
paper
dress
that I didn't put on myself—
and I notice how it seems to cover
all the hair on my chest,
but emphasize the bushes under my arms—
and he says, "That's okay."
But he seems sad
which is funny.
Usually he would tease me
about needing a sippy cup
or a bottle
or a nipple
but this cup is a baby's anyway.
A baby's foot.
A plastic baby's foot cup.

He picks up a napkin
(blue paper, not the color of anything)
and wipes my chin.

I say, "My gown's cold,
and my tit's freezing."

He says, "Okay," and pulls the blanket up.

I say, "I hate this."

He winces,
says,
"Yeah, well"
it's your fault
asshole.

to be continued