Kaiser ER

Dad fell again.

I wait in a room,

surrounded by broken bodies

broken by a broken nation.

On the drive here,

I saw a dozen men,

misshapen, homeless,

static or meandering among intersections,

candidates for car crashes

or falling down and dying.

Outside a window,

moss and English ivy

degrade a brick wall,

but look ornamental,

kind of like

American culture at work.

I wait to see

the tattooed ER doctor again,

the one who sketched

Dad's heart problem

on a brochure

announcing a prize

for the best care

bestowed by a nurse,

nominated by a patient

or member of the family.

The doctor said he should

have sketched the heart

on a tablet,

but the tablet was gone,

paper appeared,

so why not put paper to use?

I also wait to see the

Russian nurse with a chin

shaped like the clip of

a Kalashnikov rifle,

a blonde woman

ripped from a fancy perfume ad,

who reacts to my questions

with indifference so smooth and subtle

it makes me smile.

If you can smile

awaiting news of your father's fate,

well, take it.

I'm going to nominate her:

“Never before in a moment of crisis has

a sullen disposition tasted so sweet.”

Where will the news convey Dad,

convey me?

When I see Dad again

I know his first words:

“Call Dr. Kevorkian please.”

I'll laugh.

He's not joking.

Then he'll say:

“I'm going to walk into the river.”

It's too far away, though,

too rough and muddy

from the storm

to complete

the poem of his long life

that began in the Dust Bowl.