Category: Poetry

The Playground.

Some people call this a hospital.
I like to call this a place of my P’s.
A hidden treasure
in a downtown peach orchard

where all my P’s roam.
But don’t panic.
Let’s pause.

This is the place
where physicians palpate,
pain is palliated,
and papillae are poked.

Patients are pacified,
parking is pitiful,
penlights are peddled,
and parolees panto.

But me?
I just call this home.

 

%d bloggers like this: