We always park on the side road,
get out of the car and wait for each other.
We walk together
up the street
past the yellow two story house
with the white front porch and the red shutters.
“I like that house.”
I say it every time.
We rush to cross at the intersection
before the little white man disappears.
Sometimes we wait
for him to return,
eyes fixed on the orange hand,
as rows upon rows of cars drive by
in rush hour time;
the impatient commute
We walk up the ramp to the main entrance:
I make eye contact with a bleary-eyed woman,
a young man linked in her arm.
Her son, I think.
He turns his reddened face away
aware that the stain of his grief is on display.
First one set of doors opens
through which people pass.
It’s a liminal space
between those doors,
We approach the automatic revolving door,
perpetually turning people in and out,
The portal to a different world
where minds are lost in familiar bodies
or where bodies have resolved to decompose
while their great characters still grope
something that we don’t have,
that we can’t give.
We know the women and men in scrubs
We play their game.
Entangled in a net of tubes
his body lies.
A cruel or good disguise?
I don’t know him
save when I close my eyes.
Am I here in vain?
I hear my name.