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He wakes to the sound of the television talking,
the blinds drawn, a room that doesn’t smell
like his. In the infomercial glow he can see
he’s in a hospital gown and his fingers
are missing. He thinks he can feel his thumbs
but when he paws at the gauze he finds
purple stumps. Swollen. Stitched. Last night
when the cops brought him in from the windchill
he was too far gone to know his name
or if he had insurance. Now on the screen
a beautiful woman is selling him
a vacuum. A blender. A new kind
of shampoo. Even before she lets him eat
the orderly begins teaching him how to use
what’s leftover. What he can hold by pinching
a palm, what he’ll have to use his mouth for.
It gets easier, she says, peeling the lid
off a tub of yogurt. The first day is always
the toughest. The man looks down at the blue
slippers on his feet. Stares at the screen
as the woman slices the prices in half. Catches
the orderly’s young, educated eyes as she lifts
a plastic spoon for him to bite. Darling,
he says, this ain’t the first day of anything.
Originally published in Ninth Letter
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Photo Credit: Getty Images