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.
I don't love the situation, but I love your poem about it. So evocative.