A room by Kate G.

I am in a room

in a bed.

I am here often,

but rarely is it talked about on the news.

The abled are watching,

tweeting like birds 

and fighting like racoons

over spare bread and soft paper.

They do not think about their bodies often.

Automaton whirring until a fly creeps in,

that is when the machine stops. 

It rarely stops.

These are the days they stop

to think about flesh and bone.

These are the days they call their mothers 

over the phone.

I am in a room 

in a bed.

I am here often, 

but rarely is it talked about on the news.

These days, there is more to lose.