Hospital

by James Kangas

Two days after gut surgery
he was told to get up
and walk. So he did.

Hanging onto his IV pole
in a backless gown,
no control,

his bowel let go
in the hall. How could he
just shrug, unembarrassed?

Hysterical nurses
yelled for a cleanup.
You’d think he had set off

a nuclear device,
a plastic explosive, 
the no-underwear bomber.

James Kangas is a retired librarian living in Flint, Michigan. His poems have appeared in Atlanta Review, Decadent Review, New York Quarterly, Penn Review, Unbroken, et al. His chapbook, Breath of Eden (Sibling Rivalry Press), was published in 2019.