the operation

I hear the old woman
in the other curtained
block
of wheelable beds
say the same thing I did
ten minutes ago
before the subtle
drowsing of drugs
kicked in.
my underpants too, she says.
yes, the nurse says.
everything comes off,
i'll help you with this robe
that ties in the back.
someone asks me my name,
my date of birth.
I tell them i'm catholic
but fallen away.
five hour later,
i'm unmasked, unwired,
unplugged.
the needle in my hand
removed,
a bright blood spot
on the gauze still taped
across my veins.
i'm seeing the olive room
with strange
watery eyes, the garden
of trees
in near bloom
out the window, i'm
afloat in a half dream,
plastic buttons
stuck all over me, some of
which I won't find for
days.