SUSPENSION

I look down and find my hands are play-things. They seem
frivolous, I can get by without them. One tired fact convinces
me: If I can't make myself better, I can make myself worse.
In that, at least, the results are readily proven. It's funny, but
hearing the same words so many times, the vowels seem to
widen, you can step right inside them. Suddenly, I've never heard
anything as lonely as, "House." Pour me some medicine,
I can barely see you in the dark, just the hurried glint of your eye-
frames. I begin to get the idea this might be a wake, that
we are sitting here, waiting for something. An elevator drops
near-by, hush of suspension. This could be a murder, a clumsy
frame-up, or the tail-end of a business convention. I never saw it
so clearly before, that we are the ones who hand out the knives,
who mouth the word, "Victim."