No Smoking Allowed

I hate the smell
of white sheets, white pillowcases,
blank walls, beige blankets.
The hollow eyes of my father-in-law
stare through us all.  His body waits.
His fingers twitch
without the cigarette
they won’t let him have.
My mother-in-law prattles brightly
like the queen serving tea
or Marilee of the Magic Toy Shop,
that television show
I watched when I was little.
Marilee used to wave and smile at the camera
saying kids’ names at random.
Hello Peter.  Hello Susie.  Hello Tommy.
It’s so good to see you today.
Even as a kid, I wasn’t fooled.
This man wants to die
but we keep him here
in this blank room.
I sit on my husband’s lap, and lean against
his shirt, warm with sweat.
I touch the silence that lies below
the swirl of bright chatter.
I want to take these wooden bodies
rub them together
like sticks in the forest
and fill the room
with smoke.

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Published in Comstock Review