Death intrudes. It’s all he knows to do. He is not eager, but nor can he wait. Nor can we blame him.
No process is pure. Your pain; their grief. That’s not what hospitals are for. These rooms ain’t crucibles.
You’ll remember when he came to visit. That night on the grass, taking our mushrooms with ice cream, mint chocolate warm and unctuous. How he dripped into view at the edge of the woods. How he sprawled in the tent, on his back. How he whistled together, he and his friends.
You worried that you were nothing. But we looked at the stars and forgot. We learned their names instead. Staring at the screen, we looked straight through the world.
But he had only been waving hello and singing expect me again when you need me the least
Now you, nursing heartbreak and a dead battery, and he carrying a whistle, and a card trick and no concern for you.
Hospitals are rooms full of wires and cold coffee Where time piles under chairs and pillows and he comes ready to entertain us all.