Does every poem need a title?

 

You’ve stretched out over six feet of space
The only six available in a tight cramped hospital room
The timed whir of machines processing their functions
Manufacturing life for the fathers of crumbling daughters
Wakes you from the slumber you keep attempting to steal
Between Catholic prayers bleeding through overhead speakers
And the methodical ticking of another plastic heartbeat

If you could break through the window you would
If your legs could hold you up
And your fingers were not shattered at the joints
You could lose sterility, be freed from gleaming white walls and
Monitors keeping you just at death’s bay
Where you’ve sat for years
With your family in your lap
And blood spilling from your mouth.

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