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He groans in his sleep
And when he wakes to see me there
He curses me.
Call my husband,
he says, or,
Take these shackles off me,
or,
I'll spit in your fucking eyes, you bitch.
Just wait.
Just you wait.
Every 15 minutes
I have to jot a note
In his condition log.
My back is cramping
Hunched in a wooden chair
He's trying to spit in my eyes
But he can't manage it from the bed.
He groans loudly,
he sounds like some dying animal,
Ribs squeezed in a cage too small.
I put him into those restraints myself
With the help of a nurse,
as the policemen watched
Because he kept trying
To rip out his IV or catheter
And bite, scratch and spit at us.
Every time he groans
The room stinks up like
151 proof and he wants
a cigarette.
Every fifteen minutes
He curses me as
I diligently record his condition.
Call my brother,
he says, then,
Tell him to get dad out of that fucking casket,
or I'll spit in your eyes, you bitch.
See if I won't.
Just see if I won't.
Every fifteen minutes
I write in the condition log
Just not what's in my head.
1615: Still has AIDS.
1630: Still has AIDS.
1645: Still has AIDS.
The nurses are amazed
They say, I can't believe you're
handling this so well,
or,
You're doing an outstanding job
He still wants
to spit in my eyes
But it doesn't make me angry.
I try to lend him
Some of my softness
From out of spitting reach
I don't pity him,
or begrudge him his behavior.
It's just that I know
Every fifteen minutes
He still has AIDS.
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