Timmy’s got the beef sweats again,
it’s all inside-out again,
he’ll writhe and groan
like a canary
caged underground.
He says he hears
a congregation of soldiers approaching
singing hymns through tank barrels.
He begs for AIP,
we sedate him with Abolic.
He lies when he’s coasting.
But everybody knows
that Timmy’s got the beef sweats again.
He says that he sees
a dry ocean of maple fossils,
a dog with three tumors
in his pockets
and one large eye
peeking through
the anus.
The best thing to do is nod, I say.
Let the fever pass.
Twitching in his sleep, he mutters
something about
a slow procession of red-faced
cunning molesters,
big ditches, or clichés,
rolling fires, shadow planes,
and Big Macs at 3am in Gabagadag.
He moans and shrieks in his sleep
so we pull a blanket
over his head to stifle
the noise,
but we can’t deny it,
the sheets are soaked bandages,
Timmy’s got the beef sweats again.
Room fills up with a
sickly smell—
pickled cabbage
and cell phone soup;
he’s soiled himself
and cannot sleep.
He gets up and wants to dance,
naked under his hospital robes,
his dick flaps against his thighs
and makes a sweet
wet-tambourine sound.
He whistles a tune,
sounds like Götterdämmerung
or a Pepsi commercial
but we can’t agree.
He starts singing
about winning lottery numbers,
grandmas burying cats,
mothers hiding in the cracks
of dropped clay urns,
the beep beeps of street sweepers
at 3 am,
forged signatures on toilet paper
release forms.
The rough tongue of a tabby
licking yogurt off his index finger.
He flaps his arms now,
like an injured bird.
We hold him down to change
the gauze on his eyes.
The nurse laughs
but even she knows that
Timmy’s got the beef sweats again.
Second Place ~ Hart House Poetry Contest