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 life’s bay Where you’ve sat for years With your family in your lap And blood spilling from your mouth.