Sickbed

Along the sterile foothold she must keep
there's fleet foot figures dressed in shiny white
that work and watch to guide her through the night
and tend her in the daytime. They don't sleep
but, ever vigilant, they make their rounds
and talk to her, upbraid her, crack a joke
and not to disappoint them she will croak
some wan-faced recognition of their sounds -
they hardly recognise the hoarse, thin voice
that mispronounces what she tries to say
for lack of practice. All the endless day
there's no one there to make a kindred noise,
no person she could talk to who would know
the worlds behind the words where she can't go.