Stephen Phillip Johnson
Enter a hospital, you’ve entered a different world.
Death nods politely at you in the wide, clean hallways.
You nod back; in the ‘other’ world, no such intercourse.
Hope and death chat convivially. I tell you, it’s different.
People foggily re-awaken, are snuffed like tapers flickering.
And all the while, outside these walls, supposition lives.
Stephen Phillip Johnson is a Mountain Home carpenter, writing- his itch. Within the halls of medicine, where he’s been (repeatedly) healed, reside flocks of muses.