Morning In The Hospital Solarium

Sunlight strikes a glass of grapefruit juice,

flaring green through philodendron leaves

in this surrealistic house

of pink and beige, impeccable bamboo,

patronized by convalescent wives;

heat shadows waver noiseless in

bright window-squares until the women seem

to float like dream-fish in the languid limbo

of an undulant aquarium.

Morning: another day, and talk

taxis indolent on whispered wheels;

the starched white coat, the cat's paw walk,

herald distraction: a flock of pastel pills,

turquoise, rose, sierra mauve; needles

that sting no more than love: a room where time

ticks tempo to the casual climb

of mercury in graded tubes, where ills

slowly concede to sun and serum.

Like petulant parakeets corked up in cages

of intricate spunglass routine,

the women wait, fluttering, turning pages

of magazines in elegant ennui,

hoping for some incredible dark man

to assault the scene and make some

gaudy miracle occur, to come

and like a burglar steal their fancy:

at noon, anemic husbands visit them.